Coffee with French Vanilla

“Am I just one of your friends?” I blurted out.

It’s been months since him and I have seen each other, and not on mutual terms either, and it’s been a question that has been bothering me for so long that it weighs heavy within my chest. It’s not a question that could be asked in a non-direct way, but I still made an attempt to soften it. “…Or do you foresee a future with me? You and I?”

Our relationship isn’t certainly what would be called a formal relationship, although I wish it was. The mere thought that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him has been eating me alive. I even anticipated he’d continue ghosting me from there when I asked if we could meet up in person at a cafe, so I’m surprised he accepted my offer.

I’m hunched over the table with my arms crossed looking directly at him, falsely assuring myself that I’m confident in the situation I’ve put myself in, discreetly picking at my nails and cuticles. “I don’t know” he answers, and an answer I didn’t want to hear. The uncomfortable silence between us was far louder compared to the ambience of the cafe. Customers ordering their drinks; the espresso machines and blenders buzzing; names being called to the front counter; the sound of the dishes being washed and the soft music that played overhead – Not even the atmosphere could drown out the awkwardness felt in the air. He eyes down at his lap with the look of wanting to say something, a thought that flashed across his face that would hurt for him to say. “I’m just scared” he says.

Of what? I wanted to answer back, but I can’t let my irritation burn through my veins and project back up into my throat. As much as I want to put his feeling over mine, I get let my curiosity go unanswered. “But am I your friend?” I asked instead, putting a lot of emphasis on the word ‘friend.’

“Of course, you are.” There’s no telling how much that stung, but I proceeded. “Just friends,” I asked for reassurance, “nothing more?”

Still he avoids to hold eye contact with me, leaving me to guess if the language in his expression matches the generosity he holds in his heart that he won’t allow me into. “You’re… You feel more than ‘just a friend’ to me” he says unsurely, and trails off. I leaned forward, slightly raising an eyebrow.

“But?”

“But…” then he stops, and gathers his thoughts again.

I watch his chest heave up and his muscles tense as he inhales, reminding me of the many times I’ve rested my head on top of his chest. He lets out a deep exhale.

“I’m just not ready.”

And that was all he could say, and now my blood is beginning to boil. You said that the last time! I wanted to yell, never mind this is a place of respite. The tearing and pounding grows louder and louder within my ears. A mistake it was to bring him here. I should’ve picked the bar instead, where the music blasted loud; the lights dim enough to erase the signs of tears that I’m just now beginning to realize are welling up in my eyes – the vision of him going blurry before seeing him for what is in front of me. Just a guy I let my guard down for for something superficial. Mediocre.

I’m hurt, yet my heart lightens a little seeing the guilt wash upon his face; arms reaching out to me to comfort me, but frozen in space not knowing how. I watch his expression recount the many times he may have believed he’s done it before. Not again, I could imagine is what he was thinking. I closed my eyes shut, and let in a sharp inhale, followed by a breathy and shaky exhale. I looked directly into his eyes, and a half-assed attempt at holding myself up, pretending my tears weren’t staining my cheeks.

“Then we should not see each other anymore.”

His eyes go wide, and before he could answer, the barista calls out my name. “Hot coffee with french vanilla for Rachel!”

Our heads turned to eye my drink on the counter, and slowly turned our heads back to look at each other. I glanced over at my drink, and glanced back at him – looking into his longing eyes before getting up out of my seat to take my order. The coffee burned through the porcelain of the mug, stinging my fingers, but I didn’t mind the pain. I’m already feeling the worst of today. The sting of how hot the coffee was actually brought me back to myself for a second, reminding me of where I am – in a small, but beautifully decorated and welcoming cafe. I grabbed a couple of tissues and held my drink back over to my seat, careful not to drop and spill it all over me or on him. Though it be satisfying to hear him hiss at the burning sensation, just how he left me feeling for over a damn month.

I looked into the coffee, hardly showing my reflection and longingly gazed into the ripples it made, before seeing his pleading eyes once more. It’s like he knew what my intention was the second my name was called. As neutral as I tried to make my expression look, the puffiness of my eyes and the wet stains of my cheeks couldn’t hide how I was really feeling in this very moment. I looked back down at my drink, and slightly lifted it from the table. Before it could reach my lips, he grabbed my wrists. It was gentle, but it shook me that I nearly spilled hot coffee over the both of us. His voice shaking, “I’m sorry.”

We held our stares into each others eyes for what felt like a long time. “I never meant to hurt you this badly, and I’m so so sorry… Just please…” he begged.

But I’ve given you enough chances, enough time, I answered to myself. As my tears welled back up into my eyes– burning – burning hotter than the mug in my hand, I forced a smile of both genuine hurt and gratitude. “Thank you.” You were the best part of my life, I didn’t say, but I knew he felt it too. After looking into his eyes – those beautiful eyes that held so much softness one last time, I took my first sip.

As the contents of both bitterness and sweetness hit my tongue, the warmth of it all trailed through my body, and I was no longer in the cafe. Instead, I was watching scenes of my memories of him and I from my seat. Each sip I took and it entering my body came a new memory that could be watched like it was a movie, but it wasn’t a movie. It was real. One sip would transform one memory into the next. Moments we’ve shared laughs together to moments we’ve shared ourselves through love at the dead of night. Every sip was a just another experience to reflect on, and I was addicted to the warmth the coffee felt in my body, like the memories that would play right in front of me, and like the taste it was all so bittersweet. Before I knew it, the contents of my cup was almost empty.

The last sip would mean one last moment of getting to see his face in the past. I looked up from my cup, and in front of me was him and I for the first time seeing each other’s faces, and I watched like a stranger observing two people falling in love. I sat in that moment for a long time, and came a flood of questions that rippled and echoed through my head.

Was I really in love with him? Did he really feel the same? Did I meet him at the wrong time? Was he even the right person?

Were we ever meant to be?

I slowed my breathing to clear as much of these thoughts as I could. I took in this moment, watching him and I share longing gazes at each other in disbelief that we found each other. As my vision blurred from my tears and rolled down my cheeks, I smiled, and took every moment for what it was. I took the last sip, and there I was, back at the cafe. Coming back, everything stayed the same, but he was no longer in front of me.

He no longer existed. He is no longer in my life.