I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

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