“So,” they said, half-smiling, “what’s your story?”
I told them I never know how to answer that. Stories sound deliberate. This felt more like something I’d stumbled into and then slowly understood.
They said, “Like what?”
So I told them about a place I used to go, where the first thing that happened when you walked in was someone offering you a coffee. Always casual. Always quick.
“Coffee?”
They’d usually add, “No expectations,” the way people do when they’re proud of how relaxed they are.
I said yes. It was warm. I drank it, thanked them, went about my day.
Next day, same thing. Coffee again. Same tone. Same ease. At first it was almost comforting. Familiar. You didn’t have to think about it. You walked in, coffee appeared, life went on. After a few days, though, something shifted. Nothing obvious. Just a moment. A pause before the cup changed hands. A look that lingered half a second longer than before. They started asking how things were going. Not chatting — checking.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Anything happening?”
I answered honestly. Mostly the same.
They nodded, smiled, offered coffee again the next day. By the end of the week, the timing changed. Some days the coffee was already waiting. Some days it came after a minute. Some days it came after someone noticed me standing there. No one mentioned it. That’s how it stayed polite. The questions then shifted too.
“So what do you think you’ll do next?”
“Any plans forming?”
Still friendly. Still kind. But now it felt familiar in a different way — like someone watching to see if you’d finally take the hint. When nothing much changed — when I kept showing up as myself — the coffee started thinning out. Not taken away. Just… less certain. Same smiles. Same warmth. Just fewer cups. Eventually it stopped altogether. There was no conversation about it. No awkward moment. It just quietly disappeared, like a decision that had already been made.
I finished telling them this and realised they were quiet. They weren’t nodding anymore. Just thinking. Then they laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because something had clicked.
“Yeah,” they said.
“I’ve seen that.”
They glanced away, then back at me.
You could see the hesitation arrive before they noticed it themselves.
They shifted their weight. Looked past me for a moment. Then asked,
“…Would you like a coffee?”
And suddenly the question wasn’t small anymore. It was heavy. And they knew it.
I told them I never know how to answer that. Stories sound deliberate. This felt more like something I’d stumbled into and then slowly understood.
They said, “Like what?”
So I told them about a place I used to go, where the first thing that happened when you walked in was someone offering you a coffee. Always casual. Always quick.
“Coffee?”
They’d usually add, “No expectations,” the way people do when they’re proud of how relaxed they are.
I said yes. It was warm. I drank it, thanked them, went about my day.
Next day, same thing. Coffee again. Same tone. Same ease. At first it was almost comforting. Familiar. You didn’t have to think about it. You walked in, coffee appeared, life went on. After a few days, though, something shifted. Nothing obvious. Just a moment. A pause before the cup changed hands. A look that lingered half a second longer than before. They started asking how things were going. Not chatting — checking.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Anything happening?”
I answered honestly. Mostly the same.
They nodded, smiled, offered coffee again the next day. By the end of the week, the timing changed. Some days the coffee was already waiting. Some days it came after a minute. Some days it came after someone noticed me standing there. No one mentioned it. That’s how it stayed polite. The questions then shifted too.
“So what do you think you’ll do next?”
“Any plans forming?”
Still friendly. Still kind. But now it felt familiar in a different way — like someone watching to see if you’d finally take the hint. When nothing much changed — when I kept showing up as myself — the coffee started thinning out. Not taken away. Just… less certain. Same smiles. Same warmth. Just fewer cups. Eventually it stopped altogether. There was no conversation about it. No awkward moment. It just quietly disappeared, like a decision that had already been made.
I finished telling them this and realised they were quiet. They weren’t nodding anymore. Just thinking. Then they laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because something had clicked.
“Yeah,” they said.
“I’ve seen that.”
They glanced away, then back at me.
You could see the hesitation arrive before they noticed it themselves.
They shifted their weight. Looked past me for a moment. Then asked,
“…Would you like a coffee?”
And suddenly the question wasn’t small anymore. It was heavy. And they knew it.
