Fragment

You are running late. You look at your phone, tempted to cancel, but it feels
rude to do it last minute. The café is buried deep in a part of the city you’ve
never had a reason to visit, tucked into the corner that trains don’t reach, nor
buses do bother with. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe places like this, like
your feelings, are meant to stay hidden.
Lately, you’ve felt hollow. Not just tired but more emptied out than usual.
The present barely exists in your mind, as you keep repeating and letting
the past run through it, pressing harder each time until it feels safer to let it
smother you than to fight it. Activities started to feel less enjoyable, hobbies
stopped making sense, and the whole sense of purpose seems murky. Two
nights ago, a friend told you, “You sounded sick”. She said you should talk to
someone, maybe a professional. That’s the only reason you’re out of your bed
this early, wearing clothes that don’t feel like yours and don’t suit you. You
avoid mirrors because every time you look at yourself, you see something you
already hate, so you just put up with the fact of a bad fit. You don’t believe
this meeting will help. But somewhere online, you read that saying “yes” to
things saves you. So here you are, walking at 7 AM on the half-empty street,
hoping for a miracle, but for something small enough to keep you going.
You push open the café door, and the smell of coffee and chocolate breaks
through your nostrils, greeting you like your mom after school. Inside, a
wall of chocolate stares back — twenty different kinds, each with a name you
can’t pronounce. You pause and feel slightly overwhelmed. You wonder why
anyone needs this many choices. You draw a parallel with your feelings again,
thinking that your emotions work the same way: endless varieties, all leaving
a different aftertaste. You shake this thought off and move past the display
and grab a menu. As you approach the cashier’s desk, you start scanning the
underground space. It’s smaller than you expected, dimly lit, not that humid
and a little too quiet. You search for the face your friend described: blonde,
buzzed hair, blue eyes. The café isn’t busy, so you find him quickly. Blonde,
buzzed hair. It should be him. You see a young man grinning at you like
he knows something you don’t, his look makes you feel naked, stripped of
whatever disguise you thought of wearing earlier. You can’t decide if he’s
someone who wants to help you or someone who already knows every bad
thing you’ve done. Probably both. You force a polite, awkward smile and
walk toward him. His grin still makes you feel uncomfortable, but you take a
seat and mumble an apology for being late. ×