Chapter 2:
She didn't come the next night.
Or the night after that.
I told myself I didn't care. People drifted in and out of the café all the time. But her absence sat in the corner booth like a ghost sipping cold coffee. I still glanced at the door every hour. Still made an extra iced latte out of habit and dumped it down the sink at closing.
Three days passed. On the fourth, she walked in like nothing had happened—hair wild, eyes tired, wearing a black dress that looked like it had stories of its own.
"You look like grief," I said, drying a mug.
"I brought it as a date," she replied, sliding into her usual seat.
She didn't order anything. Just sat there, arms crossed, eyes unfocused.
"You okay?"
She shrugged. "My ex died."
Silence.
"He cheated on me with a girl named Destiny. Then he got hit by a truck two days ago. I laughed when I saw the news. Then I felt guilty. Then I laughed again."
I set down the mug. "That's… intense."
"Yeah. Karma wears steel bumpers."
I didn't know what to say. So I asked, "Want coffee?"
She nodded. "Make it hot. It's a funeral kind of night."
She told me she was going to the service tomorrow. I told her she didn't have to. She said, "I know. That's why I'm going."
I didn't expect her to invite me.
"I need someone to sit next to. Someone who won't judge me if I giggle during the eulogy."
"Why me?"
"You already think I'm weird."
I hesitated. "Alright. But only if I get to wear black."
"You'd look good in mourning."
---
The funeral was held at a small church, the kind that smelled like candle wax and old secrets. I wore my only black shirt. Liora wore the same dress from the night before, her lips painted blood-red like she was daring grief to say something.
We sat near the back. She leaned toward me and whispered, "Bet you twenty bucks someone says 'He was full of life.'"
"They always say that."
"Yeah, even when they were absolute trash."
She pulled out a mini notebook and started tallying clichés as the pastor spoke.
• "He touched so many lives."
• "Gone too soon."
• "We'll never forget his smile."
She underlined that one twice and shook with silent laughter.
I nudged her. "You're going to hell."
She whispered, "Already got a VIP booth."
After the service, we stood by the snack table eating mini sandwiches.
"He was allergic to peanuts," she said, popping one in her mouth.
"Wait—are those peanut butter?"
"Yeah," she said with a grin. "Irony's delicious."
"You're unwell."
She shrugged. "I process loss differently."
We left early, walking in silence until we reached the street.
"You loved him?" I asked.
She paused. "I don't know. I think I loved the idea of being loved."
"That's... honest."
She looked at me. "Would you cry if I died?"
"Only if they played Nickelback at your funeral."
She burst out laughing. "Deal."
We ended up back at the café. Closed, lights dimmed, just the two of us and the hum of the espresso machine.
She sat on the counter, kicking her boots against the cabinet.
"Thanks for coming," she said. "Most people run away when I'm like this."
"Maybe I'm just too tired to run."
She smiled. "Or maybe you're just broken in the same places I am."
There was silence. Then I asked, "You really laugh at everything painful?"
"Not everything," she said. "Sometimes I cry. But laughing feels safer."
"Why?"
"Because if I cry too hard, I might never stop."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a sketchpad. "Want to see something?"
"Sure."
She flipped it open to a page filled with frantic lines—half-drawn faces, scribbled hearts, tombstones with dates replaced by question marks.
"I call this one 'Love and Other Accidents.'"
I looked closer. One of the faces looked like mine. Barely sketched, but unmistakable. The jaw, the eyes, the tired expression.
"You drew me?"
She shrugged. "You're part of the chaos now."
There was a beat of silence between us. Then, softly, she said, "I don't want to be alone tonight."
My heart skipped.
"Not like that," she added quickly. "Just… don't leave."
So I didn't.
We sat in silence. She curled up on the couch near the window, and I sat beside her. No kissing. No touching. Just two tired souls clinging to quiet.
At some point, she fell asleep, head on my shoulder. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers twitched like she was sketching in her dreams.
I didn't sleep.
I just watched her, wondering how someone so chaotic could feel so calm when still.
---
As the sun began to bleed through the windows, she stirred. Yawned. Blinked at me.
"You stayed."
"You asked me to."
She sat up, hair messy, eyes soft. "You're weird."
"Says the girl who giggles at eulogies."
She smiled. Then, for the first time, she said something so simple it stunned me:
"Thank you.
Chapter 2 walks a fine line between dry humor and raw vulnerability. The dialogue is sharp, filled with biting wit and emotional undercurrents. The writing is sparse yet evocative, often letting silences and small gestures carry as much weight as spoken words. The chapter leans into dark humor, allowing readers to engage with grief, loss, and human connection in a deeply personal but unconventional way.
*End of Chapter 2*
Chapter 3 of Midnight Latte continues the quiet, emotionally charged connection between barista (narrator) and Liora, deepening their bond beyond late-night conversations. After spending the night in the café, Liora invites the barista (narrator) into her world — an apartment full of sketches, memories, and chaos that mirrors her internal state. What begins with moving a couch evolves into unfiltered moments of vulnerability: unread letters to her ex, confessions about love and fear, and rooftop reflections that flirt with danger but settle into trust. The chapter dances between humor and heartbreak, revealing that both characters are learning.