"The Last Cup of Coffee"

Even though it had been five years since I had entered Café Aria before, the smell had not changed. Roasted beans. Burnt toast. a faint cinnamon aroma. It had a Sunday scent. It smelled like you.

You always ordered the same thing: a cappuccino with two sugars and a croissant you barely touched. I used to make fun of you for it, saying that it was just a way to make you sit there longer between the first sip and the last goodbye. We made a ritual out of it. Every Sunday, 10 a.m., our booth by the window. Always five minutes early, you showed up. I was always a little behind schedule. That's how we fit together: your stillness, my storm. Until one day, you weren’t there.

No call. No note Not even a cryptic text. Just absence, louder than any silence I’d known. I waited for two hours at that booth. The waitress — the one with the silver hoop earrings — asked if I was okay. I said yes. I lied.

I never came back.

Until today.

It wasn’t planned. On my way to nowhere in particular, I was passing by when something caught my attention—maybe a memory or just the ache of a rainy Sunday without anyone to call. And there it was.

Our booth.

Still present. Still waiting.

However, neither the coffee-scented air nor the seat were what frozen me. It was the folded piece of paper resting neatly by the sugar jar.

My name. in the way you write. I didn’t breathe as I slid into the booth. I opened it with trembling fingers. “If you’re reading this, it means I’m five years too late. Or right on time. I'm no longer certain. I gave up everything because I didn't know how to leave you. Cowardly, I know. But I was sick, and I didn’t want you to see me fade. You would’ve stayed. And I couldn’t let you.”

“They gave me six months. I got five years. Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

“I came here every Sunday, hoping maybe… maybe you’d walk in like always. Late, smiling, annoyed at the traffic. But I understood why you didn’t. I disappeared. I gave you every reason to walk away.”

“Still, I waited. Until last week. The nurse said it was getting close to time. I told her I had to come here one last time. To write this. To say what I never said when I had the chance.”

“I loved you. Every version of you. Even the loud, stubborn, always-late you. Especially that one.”

I hope you've found love once more. I hope you’re happy. But if you aren't, you were my Sunday morning peace, so if you ever think of me, keep that in mind. My favorite goodbye I never wanted to say.”

After reading it, I don't remember how long I sat there. I don’t remember if tears fell, or if I just smiled through them. The cappuccino that the barista brought over without my asking is what I remember. Two sugars. Just like you used to have it.

I embraced the cup's warmth by wrapping my hands around it. For the first time in five years, I felt something other than emptiness.

Grief is strange.

It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it sits across from you quietly, sipping coffee, whispering your name like a memory that never left.

I looked out the window, at the rain washing the street clean, and smiled.