Yuna places two plates on the counter with a proud grin. "Here you go—egg sandwich, extra toasted. I made the eggs soft, the way Noah likes it. And you …" she sets the second plate in front of me, "get the same treatment. Enjoy."
"Thanks," I murmur, already holding the warm plate like a treasure. My stomach practically sighs.
"I already ate," she adds quickly, wiping her hands on a cloth. "Had breakfast before you came. I'd sit and join you, but I'm still buzzing from my fourth cup of coffee."
I chuckle, trying not to look too desperate as I take my first bite. The bread is warm and crunchy, the egg soft and buttery with a hint of pepper. It tastes like something made with care—simple, but grounding. This is the fanciest meal I've had in months.
Noah takes his first bite too, quietly savoring the moment. For a while, the only sound between us is the soft clinking of mugs and forks—and the soft hum of jazz music in the background. It's not awkward, though. Calming, even.
Yuna leans on the counter with a teasing smile. "So, what's your story? Eh, I don't know your name yet, right? Or are you one of those mysterious types too?"
I glance at her, mouth full. She laughs.
"Never mind. Keep your secrets. I'm just glad you're joining us. This place needs more calm energy. Chloe is the same as me. That old man Paul? Damn, he laughs louder than this cafe's speaker. Noah? He's a walking question mark!"
I don't know who Paul is—probably another barista. But I continue eating and listening.
"Hey," Noah says around a bite, raising an eyebrow, "I'm a very straightforward person. I just happen to speak in metaphors."
"Exactly my point," she says, grinning. "Anyway, I should check the milk frother before it explodes again. Oh—front door just opened. That's my cue."
She disappears with a hum, leaving the two of us sitting at the small bar counter, plates half-finished, coffee slowly cooling.
Noah glances after her, then turns to me. "She speaks a lot, but she means well."
"She's nice," I say quietly, then finish the last bite of my sandwich. "And she seems to like working here."
"She does. Most people who end up here are looking for something. A pause. A direction. Something to keep them going." He studies me for a second, his gaze neither sharp nor soft—just observant. "You're still unsure about all this."
I sip my drink to avoid answering right away. Then I shrug. "I guess … I just don't get why it's so easy. Nothing's been easy for me lately. This feels like a trap."
"It's not a trap," he says gently. "It's a start. Maybe you're just not used to anything feeling kind."
That lands sharper than I expect. I blink down at my mug. I don't know what to feel, but he knows how to make people open up to him. Or maybe it's because he's so composed and calm—it makes me comfortable?
He continues, voice even, "You don't need to overthink everything. That's one of your habits, isn't it? Always playing out ten possible outcomes in your head. Trying to prepare for every disaster."
I look up. "How do you know that?"
Noah taps his temple. "I used to do the same. Still do, sometimes. It's a survival thing. But it burns you out. Slowly and constantly."
I let out a soft breath. He's not wrong.
"I don't know how to stop," I admit.
"You don't stop all at once," he replies, "you start by allowing something to be what it is. A sandwich can just be a sandwich. A job can just be a job. A morning can just be a morning."
"That sounds … nice."
"It is. When you let it be."
His words sink in slowly, like warmth spreading through my chest. Maybe I haven't let anything just be, not in a long time. Ever since everything fell apart, I've been in constant motion—surviving, not living. Grasping at control, failing to sleep without pills, brushing aside every emotion that threatened to crack the mask I wore.
And I am wearing a mask. Even now. "I think I'm depressed," I murmur, barely audible.
Noah doesn't react like I expect. No alarm, no pity. Just a calm nod. "Yeah. I figured."
I blink at him. "You did?"
"You look like someone who's been trying not to name it. But I've seen that weight before—in the mirror and in others. Denial doesn't fix it. Naming it is the first step to holding it differently."
I want to laugh, but my throat feels too tight. "I don't know what to do about it."
"You don't have to know right away. But healing doesn't start with knowing. It starts with allowing. Let yourself feel tired. Hurt. Angry. Let yourself be not okay."
"That's ... hard."
"I know. That's why you'll need help. From people, from places. And maybe from this cafe. It's not a hospital, not a therapy room, but it's a place to exist."
I stare into my now-empty mug, wishing it had more inside. Maybe it's a metaphor for me too—emptied out, but still warm.
"I can't even think about my future," I whisper, "I used to have all these plans. Now I can't see anything. Just static."
"Then don't think too far ahead," he says, "think about tomorrow's shift. Think about how you'll learn to steam milk. Think about what song is playing on the speaker. Sometimes, the present is the only place you can survive."
His voice isn't soft, but it's steady, like someone who knows how it feels to be drowning and still throws you a rope anyway.
"Thanks," I manage, "I hope I don't make you feel like a therapist. But I'm really glad we talked about this, it means a lot."
He stands and stretches lightly. "You'll be okay. Not immediately. But eventually. And you're welcome. We'll meet each other often, you know."
As he moves toward the sink to rinse his cup, I feel something shift inside me—not a full transformation, not even a breakthrough. Just a breath. A pause.
I look at his back. Noah is ... something. I don't know who he is yet, but I think we'll get closer. I don't feel judged around him.
But is it okay to put my trust in someone, after everything?