The Aroma is Enough

I’m making coffee for two, and outside, the rain starts.

Not heavy. Just enough to blur the window, to make the kitchen feel smaller, warmer. I pour the water and watch steam rise, and for a moment I let myself believe the universe is paying attention.

Three days ago, we both reached for the same book.

The bookstore was quiet. Thursday afternoon, the kind of grey light that makes you want to stay inside and read. I was in the self-help section—manifesting, neuroscience, the intersection of belief and biology. My fingers trailing spines until I stopped at one.

The Magic Mind: The Neuroscience of Manifestation and How It Changes Everything

I’d been thinking about it for weeks.

And then someone else’s hand touched the same spine at the exact same moment.

“Oh—” We both laughed, pulled back.

Lee. Brown eyes, easy smile, the kind of face that makes you feel like you’re already mid-conversation.

“Sorry,” Lee said. “Go ahead.”

“No, you were here first.”

Lee held the book between us like an offering. “Have you read it?”

“Not yet. But I’ve been wanting to. The whole idea of how belief shapes reality—”

“Right?” Lee’s face lit up. “The neuroscience behind manifestation is fascinating. Like, is it magic or just confirmation bias on steroids?”

I laughed. Confirmation bias. The exact phrase I’d been reading about.

We talked for twenty minutes. Right there in the aisle. About belief. About why some things feel charged the moment they happen. Lee’s hands moved when they talked, shaping ideas in the air. I felt seen in a way I hadn’t felt in months.

“You should take it,” Lee said finally, holding out the book. “I can grab it next time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” That smile again. “But you have to tell me if it’s any good. We should get coffee and compare notes.”

We should get coffee.

I gave Lee my number. Lee texted before I even left the store: Already looking forward to it.

Now it’s Saturday morning, and I’m grinding beans like it’s ceremony.

The sound fills the kitchen. I breathe in the smell—dark, bitter, promising—and think about how Lee said “compare notes” like we were already in something together. Already building toward something.

I’m using the good mugs. The ones I save for special.

The rain picks up. I glance at my phone. Ten minutes.

I’ve changed clothes twice. Settled on the sweater that makes me look like I’m not trying. I cleaned the apartment even though it wasn’t messy. I keep catching myself smiling at nothing.

The doorbell.

Lee shakes rain from dark hair, grinning. “God, it smells incredible in here.”

“Just made it.” I hand over a cup. “How do you take yours?”

“However you made it is perfect.”

We sit at the small table by the window. Rain streaking glass. Steam rising between us.

“So,” Lee says, pulling out the book. “I started it. Three chapters in. Mind-blowing.”

I lean forward. “Right? Like, what if we’re not imagining the signs—what if we’re just tuned to see what’s actually there?”

“Or—” Lee’s eyes bright, engaged, “—what if the ‘signs’ are just our brains doing what they evolved to do? Find meaning in chaos. Just… not magic.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

Lee grins. “Exactly. That’s what I love about this stuff. The not knowing.”

And we’re off.

We talk the way people do when they think they’ve found someone who understands them. Lee tells me about visualizing a job last year, getting it, still not knowing if it was manifestation or just psychology.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Maybe belief is enough.”

“Maybe.” Lee leans back, studying me. “You really think the universe sent me to that bookstore?”

I pause. “I think… coincidences are just patterns we haven’t named yet.”

Lee laughs. Not mocking. Delighted. “I’m stealing that.”

The coffee goes cold. We’re still talking.

Lee’s phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Lee glances at it, puts it face-down.

“You need to get that?”

“No. This is better.”

This is better.

The rain softens. Lee checks the time, surprised.

“I should probably go.” Lee stands, reluctant. “But this was—yeah. We should definitely do it again.”

“Absolutely.”

At the door, pulling on a jacket: “Thanks for the coffee. And for… you know. Getting it.”

I watch Lee run through rain to a car parked down the street. Watch until the taillights disappear.

I make a third cup.

Just for me. Just to keep the smell in the room a little longer.

I sit at the window and watch rain turn the street soft. People walking past with umbrellas, heads down, living their ordinary Saturday.

But mine isn’t ordinary.

I think about Lee’s hands shaping ideas in the air. The way Lee said “this is better” like choosing me over whoever was texting. The way we both reached for the same book at the same impossible moment.

I open my journal. Write: Same book. Same time. Same wavelength.

Outside, the rain turns gentle.

I don’t need to taste the coffee. The aroma is enough.

Three weeks. Bright sun through the kitchen window. No clouds.

I’m making two cups and I know exactly how Lee takes it now. Oat milk, no sugar. I bought the oat milk Lee likes, the one in the blue carton.

The coffee smells the same as it did that first Saturday, but everything else has changed. Lee has been here six times. We’ve texted every day. Yesterday Lee sent me a quote from the book: “Your personality creates your personal reality.” And then: “This made me think of you.”

I’ve read that text four times.

I set both mugs on the table. Lee’s on the left, mine on the right. The way it’s been.

The keys in the code.

Lee comes in without knocking now. I gave the code two weeks ago after Lee showed up soaked from a sudden storm. “So you don’t have to wait in the rain,” I said. Lee kissed my cheek—quick, friendly—and said, “You’re the best.”

“Morning,” Lee calls out.

“Coffee’s ready.”

Lee appears in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, carrying a canvas bag stuffed with books. Drops it on the floor with a soft thud.

“You’re a lifesaver. I was desperate.”

“Rough morning?”

“Just needed to talk this through with someone who gets it.” Lee takes the mug, wraps both hands around it. “I’m working on a paper,” Lee says. “And I’m stuck.”

Lee launches into it—what isn’t working, what might.

I listen. Contribute. Suggest a framework from Chapter 7. Lee’s eyes light up.

“Yes. Exactly that. God, you get this stuff.”

We sit. The conversation spirals the way it always does—fast, absorbed, leaving the rest of the room behind. Lee is animated, leaning forward, hands shaping arguments in the air the way they did in the bookstore.

“I’m supposed to present at a conference in June,” Lee says. “There’s a panel on consciousness and neural patterns. You’d love it.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“You should come. I mean, if you’re interested. It would be perfect for—” Lee pauses. “For understanding things better.”

You should come.

I imagine it. A hotel. Sessions during the day. Dinner after. Maybe walking through a strange city together.

“I’d love to,” I say.

Lee smiles. “Great. I’ll send you the details.”

The conversation shifts. Lee mentions needing to find a place closer to campus, something about the commute getting exhausting. I feel my heart skip—closer to campus means closer to here—but I don’t say anything.

“How’s the research group?” I ask.

“Good. We’re finally making progress on the paper. Taylor’s been helpful—they have this background in cognitive psych that’s perfect for what we’re doing.”

Taylor. Lee’s mentioned the name before. A colleague. Someone in the program.

“That’s good you have support.”

“Yeah.” Lee checks the time. “Actually, I’m meeting them later to go over some data. But I wanted to see you first.”

Wanted to see you first.

Lee’s phone buzzes on the table. Once. Twice. Three times.

Lee glances at the screen. Something shifts in their expression—not guilt, just… awareness.

“Sorry. Just—”

“It’s fine. Is it important?”

“It’s Taylor. We’re trying to coordinate.” Lee types quickly, puts the phone face-down. “Where were we?”

But the rhythm is different now. Lee finishes the coffee faster than usual. Checks the time again.

“I should probably head out soon.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Lee stands, rinses the mug without me asking. I watch from the table.

At the door, pulling on shoes: “Same time next week?”

“Of course.”

“Perfect.” Lee hesitates, then turns back. “Hey. I just want to say—it’s really rare to find someone who actually wants to dig into this stuff. Most people think I’m obsessed.”

“You are obsessed.”

Lee laughs. “Fair. But you get it. That means a lot.”

That means a lot.

The door closes. I watch through the window as Lee walks to the car. Phone already out, texting.

I pour myself another cup even though I don’t want it.

Sit at the table. Open my journal.

Signs I’m manifesting Lee:

Same book, same moment

Texts every day

Has my door code

“Wanted to see you first”

Conference in June (together)

Might move closer

I stare at the list. Add one more:

“That means a lot”

Outside, the sun is so bright it hurts to look at. No clouds. Just clarity.

I pick up The Magic Mind, flip to a page I’ve dog-eared. Chapter 7: “The brain is a pattern-recognition machine. It will find evidence for whatever it believes.”

I close the book.

Lee said the research paper is about belief systems. About whether we create reality or just interpret it.

I think about Lee’s hands around the mug. The way Lee says my name.

The phone buzzing.

Taylor.

I push the thought away.

The coffee tastes perfect. Just like I knew it would.

I’m making two cups. The rain is so heavy I can barely see the street.

My hands know the ritual. Grind, pour, wait. Steam rising in the dark kitchen. I haven’t turned on the lights.

It’s Tuesday. Three in the afternoon but the sky looks like evening.

Last night I went to Lee’s apartment.

I don’t know why. A feeling. The kind I’ve been trusting for three weeks.

I knocked.

Lee opened the door. Surprised. “Oh—hey!”

Behind Lee, someone on the couch. Legs tucked under them. Comfortable. Wine glasses on the coffee table, not water. Takeout containers. The laptop open between them, but the space—the space looked like home, not work.

“This is Taylor,” Lee said.

Taylor looked up. Smiled. The kind of smile that’s warm because it doesn’t have to prove anything.

“You’re Priya! Lee talks about you all the time. Your insights on the manifestation stuff have been so helpful for the paper.”

The paper.

I stood there. Lee’s apartment that I’d never been to. Taylor’s jacket on the chair by the door. Two wine glasses.

“Did you need something?” Lee asked.

“No. Wrong night. Sorry.”

I left before Lee could say anything else.

The rain started on the walk home.

Now I’m pouring coffee into two cups because I don’t know how to stop.

I stand at the counter. Look at them. Lee’s mug on the left. Mine on the right.

The images come without asking:

The bookstore. Both reaching. Lee laughing. “We should get coffee.”

The first Saturday. Lee’s hands shaping ideas. “This is better.”

The code. “So you don’t have to wait in the rain.”

The texts. “This made me think of you.”

Yesterday. “You get this stuff.”

Last night. Taylor. Wine. Home.

I pick up both mugs. Walk to the sink. Pour them out.

Watch the coffee spiral down the drain.

The Magic Mind is open on the counter. Chapter 9.

I read the line I’ve highlighted:

“The observer doesn’t just see reality—they create it by choosing what to notice.”

I close the book.

Stand at the window. Rain hammering the glass.

Someone runs past with an umbrella. Hood up. Face down. Just trying to get somewhere dry.

I think about Lee saying “confirmation bias on steroids” that first day, laughing, like it was theoretical.

I think about making coffee for two every Saturday because it felt like proof.

I think about the list in my journal. Seven signs. Seven things I chose to notice.

The phone buzzing. I noticed it. Wrote it down as evidence Lee wanted to see me first.

Didn’t notice what it actually meant.

Taylor texting. Taylor coordinating. Taylor waiting.

“Lee talks about you all the time.”

Your insights. For the paper.

What about our future? The one existed in the space between grinding beans and pouring water.

The rain doesn’t stop.

I think about chapter 7 again—how we choose what to see.

The kitchen is dark.

Two empty cups still on the counter.

By evening, the coffee smell is completely gone.

The apartment feels larger. Emptier.

Outside, rain slicks the pavement and people hurry past, collars turned up, moving toward lives that don’t require interpretation.

I leave the mugs where they are and turn off the kitchen light.

There is nothing in the room pretending to mean something else.

END