BitterSweet

Trigger Warning: This submission contains references to mental health and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

I pulled out the coffee pot from its place and poured the black liquid into a white ceramic mug. The liquid was thick and I could already smell the bitterness of it.

I liked it this way, and I knew he would too. Yet, I placed the milk pot on the tray next to the cup and a bowl of sugar cubes. Sometimes he likes to drink with milk and sugar. When he’s in a rather happy mood.

Today wasn’t a happy day though. Today was bleak, and the grey clouds outside that covered the morning sky seemed to have agreed with us.

There was a cackle of thunder somewhere but inside the cafe, we could only hear the rumbling of it. The faint jazz song drowned most of the noise, leaving only traces of laughter, footsteps, and the cold steel forks touching the tiny white plates filled with pastries.

I carefully brought him his coffee and places it in front of him. He glanced up at me with a faint smile and nodded. I sat across from him even though my shift hadn’t ended. My friend would take care of it, I thought, and acted like a customer.

He took the coffee mug and for a second, stared down at the liquid as if he could see the future inside it. Maybe he could, I wouldn’t know. He was never much of a talker. Never expressed himself much.

I wished he would because most of the time, he kept to himself. Whether he was hurt, sad, or happy, he had only one expression, and one expression only.

I didn’t mind though because I loved him. When he took his first sip and looked up at me, I almost immediately knew that he liked it. That his tongue tingled with joy as soon as he took the first sip.

I smiled faintly and let out a sigh of relief.

“So?” I finally asked. “What brought you here?”

He put down his mug and intertwining both his hands, he looked straight at me with an expression that already made my heart race.

His eyes were glazed and I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. The cafe was cold even though the owner had turned up the heater. I folded my hands into fists on my lap and stared back at him.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

Sorry for? I wanted to ask but my mouth wouldn’t open.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

I could feel a strange sensation behind my eyes - as if a dozen bees were stinging me from the inside. My throat dried and I wished at the moment I had brought a glass of water with me.

I was still silent as he spoke.

“I thought we would work, but I also knew what we had would crash and burn.”

The remaining sounds in the cafe faded away. The only melody was his voice. Knowing that it’d be the last time I’d hear it, my heart raced even faster.

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

At this point, he seemed to be blurting out lines that he had memorized. Lines he found online while he searched “how to breakup with my girlfriend of 7 years?”

I stayed silent. Not because I wanted to, but because my mind was an empty canvas. I was trying to understand the why, but I wasn’t able to come to a conclusion.

“I’m sorry, I still love you, I always will.” He said and taking one more sip of his coffee, he stood up and left.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t tell me to have a good life. He just left as if I was a poster on the wall. As if I was just a flower he noticed at the garden.

I stared at the empty chair in front of me. The sounds of people chattering and laughing and just living their life to the fullest was loud again. I opened up my fists and let my shoulders drop.

I stood up and grabbing the tray, went to the back of the kitchen to clean it up. There was still half a cup of coffee left. He didn’t even drink the entire thing.

I was about to throw the coffee in the sink, but stopped. I brought the mug close to my lips and smelled it. The faint scent of his cologne lingered at the rim. I inhaled and placing my lips on the rim, took a sip of the warm liquid.

It tasted bitter. Almost metallic, but I liked it. Because it tasted like him.

I downed the rest of the coffee as it was already warm and put the mug in the sink. I wiped the residue from the corners of my lips with the back of my hand and rushed out the backdoor where the trash cans were.

I sat down on the stairs of the backdoor and pulled out my small notepad which I use to take everyone’s orders. Flipping to an empty page, I pull out the small pencil from the spiral binding and write.

“I hate you.”

I’m not much of a talker. Nor do I express my feelings in a notebook, but I had to write it down somewhere before I’d burst into flames. Before I’d collapse on the ground into my own pool of tears.

I repeatedly scribbled “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” Until I hate you turned to I hate myself. “I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.”

Droplets of water sprinkled on my notepad, but I didn’t stop.

My friend called out to me to start my shift again, but I didn’t stop.

The little light on top of the backdoor lit, but I didn’t stop.

My manager fired me. My friend cursed at me as she had to cover the whole shift, but I didn’t stop.

And before I knew it, pages over pages in my tiny little notebook was covered in I hate yous and I hate myselves.

When I went back home. I made a cup of coffee for myself because that’s what I’m good at. Or at least that’s what I thought until I tasted the liquid and felt the bitterness tingle on my tongue.

I sighed softly as I placed the cup down on the table and went to my bedroom. I closed the door even though there was no one else but me.

It was as if I didn’t want the walls from the other room to hear the thud of the chair.