It happens without thought, without hesitation. The motions are muscle memory, stitched into my body like a habit I never meant to keep.
I step inside, and the air is thick with something familiar—coffee, burnt sugar, the faintest trace of old cigarettes clinging to the walls.
The bell above the door barely makes a sound anymore. The chime, once crisp, now a tired echo of itself. And the door resists closing, dragging against the floor as if reluctant to let anyone in or out, like it, too, has grown tired of the repetition.
I shake the cold off my coat before slipping it from my shoulders, draping it over the back of the same chair I always take. The fabric pools slightly on the floor. I don’t fix it. I never do. It’s an act repeated so often it no longer requires thought.
The table is the same. The scratches on the wood, the uneven leg, the way it leans just slightly to the right so that if I press too hard, my coffee will tilt toward the edge. It’s a flaw I’ve memorized. One of the many in this place.
The cafe isn’t crowded. It never is at this hour. A few familiar faces, ghosts of the background, flickering between solitude and conversation.
The waitress, her name escapes me, but her face is a fixture in my mornings. She arrives before I even look up.
Dark coffee, no sugar.
She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t wait for a nod, a confirmation. Just sets it down in front of me, the ceramic cup clicking against the saucer.
I glance at the surface. Black, undisturbed. No tiny white packet of sugar placed beside it, no absentminded stirrer left behind.
For the first time, she’s gotten it right.
I wonder if she noticed. If she’s been watching long enough to realize I never reach for the sugar, never take the time to sweeten the bitterness. If she’s pieced together that I don’t drink coffee for pleasure but for function, for the way it settles into my veins like something steady, something grounding.
But that’s not entirely true. Because there is a kind of pleasure in the bitterness, in the way it lingers on the tongue, uncompromising and sharp. A quiet satisfaction in the weight of the cup in my hands, the heat curling against my fingertips. It’s not just function—it’s ritual I’d say. And maybe I like that it doesn’t beg to be enjoyed, that it refuses to be anything but what it is.
I wonder if she noticed...or maybe she doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe I shouldn’t read so much into it. But I do, a habit of mine.
I lift the cup to my lips, sip slowly. The heat is sharp, the taste is as expected. It burns a little, but I let it.
I sip slowly.
Bitter. Uncompromising.
Just as I like it. Just as I’ve always liked it.
A cigarette next. It follows naturally, one habit feeding into the next. Technically my second one. The first still lingers on my fingers, on the back of my throat, on the scent woven into my coat. But the first doesn’t count. The first is part of arrival, of transition, of stepping into the familiar. The second is ritual.
I pull the pack from my pocket, Gauloises, blue, tap the bottom against my palm until one slides free. The lighter flicks open with a familiar metallic click, the flame catching easily. I inhale, feel the smoke curl down my throat, settle in my lungs.
The first drag is always the best, the cleanest. After that, it dulls. Diminishes. Like everything else.
The inhale is slow, drawn-out, an extension of the moment. Smoke curls against the window, ghosting over the reflection of my own tired face.
Outside, the world moves. People pass by, faceless, nameless, lost in their own rituals, their own repetitions. The city breathes around me, indifferent.
Inside, the coffee cools, the cigarette burns down, and time slips through my fingers, ungrasped.
I sit in my usual seat, at my usual table, drinking my usual coffee, smoking my usual cigarette. And yet, something feels different today.
Another sip. Another drag.
The same day, the same routine.
And yet, something has shifted.
I can’t decide if it’s the coffee or me.
It can be the coffee, finally made the way I like it. Maybe it’s the way the waitress left it there without asking, without waiting for permission.
Or perhaps it’s just me.
Maybe I’m the one who’s changed, and I just don’t know it yet.
Thoughts linger, dissolving into the steam rising from the cup.
…
No, no, it’s not me. That’s almost impossible.
I don’t change. I don’t shift. I don’t break pattern.
The idea is almost laughable—me, changing, as if. As if I could ever be anything other than this. As if I could wake up one day and suddenly be different. Suddenly be new. Suddenly be anything other than what I’ve always been.
No, it’s the coffee. It’s the waitress. It’s the cold outside pressing too harshly against the windows, making the inside feel warmer than usual. That’s all it is. That’s all it ever is.
I take another sip. The bitterness is sharp, cutting. It tastes like habit. It tastes like yesterday. It certainly tastes like tomorrow.
The cigarette is half-smoked. The coffee is half-drunk.
I am neither.
Or maybe both.
A cigarette never finished but never truly discarded. A cup of coffee never quite emptied but never abandoned. Just enough to linger. Just enough to feel like something, but never quite enough to be whole.
I glance around, I notice other patrons, lost in their own rituals. Each trapped in their cycle, just like me.
I exhale, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling, dissipating before it can settle. That’s also me.
No, I don’t change. I won’t change. I can’t change.
It’s too easy to stay this way. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
To break the cycle, I’d have to want to. To want to, I’d have to believe there’s something worth breaking it for.
And really—what’s out there, beyond this? Beyond the coffee, beyond the cigarettes, beyond the quiet hum of a city that never stops moving?
Nothing.
I see nothing beyond these pointless rituals.
Nothing I need, nothing I want, nothing I care to chase.
I stub out the cigarette, leaving behind only the filter, only the remains. The half of something that never quite made it to the end.
And then I reach for my cup.
Not to finish it, just to sip, just to linger.
Because this—this is enough.
The door opens. Someone walks in.
The door closes. Someone walks out.
I don’t look up.
Because if I do, if I acknowledge whatever is coming, whatever is about to break this moment—
I might have to face something I can’t bring myself to care about.
I sit back, looking at the remnants and ash. Perhaps one day I’ll be ready to face the truths I keep hidden, but for now, the weight of my habits is comfortable. Comfortable enough to carry, at least for today.
…
Reverie(7/7):
Maybe that’s what I’ll always do.
Burn what’s beautiful.
Call it art.
Call it anything but what it is.
My masterpiece of almosts
is anything but regret.
I’ve gotten good at that —
naming the wreckage,
framing the ash,
hanging it on the wall,
and stepping back to admire it.
Darling, if you ever come back,
if you ever find yourself in the city again,
and the night feels too heavy,
and he doesn’t understand why you can’t stop crying —
call me,
even if I don’t pick up the phone.
I probably won't pick up the phone.
But some part of me
is still sitting by that door
I closed in your face.
Darling, I still remember what it felt like
to almost let you in.
Confessions Chapters:
15.Almost
The 3am thoughts
were not new.
They were the ones
that waited all day
for the noise
to finally stop.
— AËLA
The ending made everything before it fall into place. The coffee, the cigarettes, the repetition—all of it begins to feel like a carefully maintained distance from the one thing he almost allowed himself to feel. “I still remember what it felt like to almost let you in” is such a quiet, painful confession.