The one that didn’t taste like coffee anymore.

The one that tasted like beginning to care too much.

There are things that never start loudly.

They grow, quietly—like warmth from the first sip of coffee,

like how you don’t notice when the rain stops, 

or when someone begins to matter

The first cup was coincidence.

Rain, book, silence, and a man with an Americano.

The second was comfort.

A shared table, the sound of two cups clinking, 

and that simple, habitual smile he gave whenever I spoke too fast.

The third was attachment.

The seat by the window was no longer just mine.

It was ours, by default —no texts, no plans, yet we both somehow knew.

The barista stopped asking. She would simply look at us and nod, 

“Vanilla Latte and Americano?”

But the fourth— 

the fourth was something else.

He came later than usual that day.

I was already on my second sip when the door chimed.

Brown coat, hands tucked into his pocket, 

his eyes catching mine before anything else.

“You waited?” He asked, half teasing, half unsure.

“Maybe.” I smiled, stirring the melting ice.

“It’s your fault for being predictable.”

“Predictable?” He chuckled, placing his Americano down.

“I thought consistency was attractive.”

“It is,” I admitted.

“Until it starts feeling like a habit you can’t break.”

He raised his cup slightly, as if to toast.

“Then let me be your bad habit.”

And there it was— 

that uninvited flutter beneath my ribs. 

The kind that didn’t ask permission to stay.

We talked about the usual: 

book, the weather, the songs we didn’t finish listening to.

But that day, something shifted.

Between the pauses, between the quiet stirs of coffee and breath,

I realized—- 

we no longer needed the rain to make us stay.

I thought, for a brief second, 

how strange it was that some people arrive unannounced— 

and before you realize it, 

they’ve become part of your routine, 

as essential as breath, as caffeine, as waiting.

The scent of roasted beans was heavier that day.
The afternoon air was calm, unusually windless, as if the whole world paused to listen to the whispers between coffee steam and heartbeats.

He came earlier.
Or maybe I was too late.

There was a quiet surprise that stirred when I saw him already sitting by the window, the same spot we both unconsciously claimed as ours. The sunlight filtered through the glass, kissing his brown coat, making him look almost cinematic. His eyes were distant, tracing something invisible outside.

He turned just in time, catching me in the middle of my hesitation.
“Vanilla?” He said, as if my name was that drink.
I smiled. “Always.”
He nodded, faintly, “I guesses.”

He looked tired, maybe from work, maybe from life. But his tiredness was strangely comforting— it matched mine. Like two unfinished sentences left hanging in the same paragraph.

I placed my book on the table. Not Le Petit Prince this time. The Great Gatsby again — he teased me once that I never finished it, that I was stuck somewhere between “old sport” and heartbreak.

“Did you ever finish it?” He asked.
I shook my head. “Maybe I don’t want to. I like it better unfinished.”
He chuckled softly.
“That’s just like you.”
“Like me?”
“You like to stay in the middle of stories. Not ending them, not beginning again. Just… staying.”
I didn’t answer. He wasn’t wrong.

The drinks came —mine, pale, and sweet, floating in glass and ice; his, dark, and restless, in porcelain and heat. The contrast looked almost symbolic.

“Do you ever think,” i began quietly, “why people have favorite drinks?”
He looked at me, tilting his head slightly. “Hmm?”
“I think it says something about us.
Vanilla latte —it’s the comfort I never got to have.
Warmth with sweetness, but still cold enough to hurt a little.”

He smirked, lifting his Americano.
“And me?”

“Bitter. But pure.” I said it without hesitation.

He raised his eyebrows, amused. “That’s harsh.”

“It’s honest.”

He stared at his cup, then at me. “Then maybe you’re right. Maybe I like bitter things because I want them to stay real.”

There was silence again.

But this time, it wasn’t awkward —it was mutual, soft, like the foam fading on coffee, like words unsaid that didn’t need to be.
Outside, the street was still wet from last night’s rain. The glass reflected two figures —one dark, one light, both framed by the faint golf of afternoon.

He broke the quiet first.
“Next time,” he said, “I’ll have vanilla latte.”

“Why?” I smiled. “You don’t even like sweet things.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But maybe I just want to know what you taste like.”

My pulse tripped over itself.
My vanilla latte almost slipped from my hand.

He looked down, hiding a grin. “I mean— what your favorite drink tastes like.”

Sure. 
Of course.

And just like that, Mr. Americano melted the ice in my vanilla latte faster than the sun outside could.
That afternoon didn’t need rain to be remembered. 

It was enough to have coffee, sunlight, and his unguarded smile—
And the sudden awareness that maybe, just maybe,
He wasn’t just a chapter anymore.

 October 17, 2019

He's just another man -- the only special he owned was, he would sit across me with his both ears ready for long preaches and ratting. Just another man, who would respond my elated or agitated expression with  the same smile, or if he was being generous--a little chuckle.

an-Americano between nights.

Through any transpicuous windows, the crowds of lamps failed to call you in.

and, how much time more I'll have to wait for us to cross?


Dear universe,

I am waiting for his shadow to pass by.

Let me count, if possible,

The days passed so fast that I might not care of how much times wasted.

For you, an-americano between rains in April.


"He came alone, yesterday, only for a quick take out." this lady behind the counter said as she gave me back my card.

"Who?"

"the owner of that parasol. in your bag, miss..." she replied with smile.

"Really? I can leave this to you? he might come back, he might need it anytime soon."

I, of course wouldn't need her answer to take out the umbrella from my bag.

But the door's bell rang, breaking the silence between us.


"Evening..." the lady greeted a person behind me that automated my neck to more than 90 degrees turn around.

Brown coat.

He. is...

that americano-man.



I raised my hand awkwardly, showing his umbrella right in front of his head.


"Oh?"

He noticed his stuff, right?

"Vanilla? Latte?"

God. his voice traveled to my heart and spur my AV-nodes harshly, rudely. I thought I might faint.

I stepped aside and just nodded foolishly.

"How fortunate, this umbrella would go home, finally." I handed it to him.

"Thank you, what a coincidence."

No-- you rude man, I am waiting for like a decade. No such a thing like coincidence. I disagreed.

I have been waiting for every chance I got to land my ass here, only for a slight hope that I might have a brief companion for a glass of vanilla latte.

"Wait-- I'll place my order."

I frowned that he suddenly stopped me when I was about to walk to my seat.

He peeped through above my head. "Ah, you'll sit there?"

I hummed.

His head turned back to his phone and paid his americano. So what? At least, talk! will you sit with me or how? Geez-- man! That's how rude man is!

The window-seat was the witness, of how we met in one cold rainy day, in April.

People were coming and passing by, but I couldn't find you.

 

But god pushed you here, to pick your umbrella see me, thank you for coming mr. americano.

November 29, 2018

 

 

We met in early april, and I kept passing that same path way home with your very own umbrella. I wished I would be able to shake your hand at least, for thanking you letting me hid under your umbrella.

You looked hurt that day.

You held your anger with your cold americano in rains.

Coffee isn't calming for some reasons, dear mr. americano in brown coat. I would treat you to a glass of vanilla latte once we meet again, at least a latte, to comfort your uneasiness. 

I was waiting you at the same seat we sat on that day. I was bringing my own book, Great Gatsby. But I couldn't concentrate onto every classic words I read. I kept wanting to look up whenever the door was opened, hoping that you might stop by.

You.

You were the unfamiliar feelings lingered around my heartbeat.

You were butterflies tickling me inside. 

You, might be the sweetest americano I know, even now. 

October 9, 2018

July 16, 2018

THREE: AMERICANO X VANILLA LATTE

Everyone was surrendering, to the ticking time...

for the unfailing rain that repulse to cease.

And I was still trapped between my vanilla latte and his americano.

Americano.

Caffè Americano--iced.

the ice cubes were all almost gone.

I finally conceded my disguise in a book and reached the glass of vanilla latte.

He budged a little and looked up at me.

"Sweet?"

the very question he disserted was thing that didn't need an answer, out of all.

"No." I answered. 

I was honest. It wasn't sweet, the ice cubes were all melted away and diluted my should-be-sweet vanilla latte. 

I guess he was thirsty after saying stupid question and took himself his americano.

"Coffee should taste like this, 70 percent bitter, and sour the rest."

I watched half of him through the reflection of the dampen window, he was then leaning back and observed things outside. I just noticed that he wore a pretty brown velvet coat, looking warm. And he put his deerskin primaloft gloves on the table, in custard? and sure he matched them with his coat.

The afternoon was well-spent.

in awkward silence and fleeting ungainly eye-contact.

 

March 29, 2018

TWO:

My vanilla latte, on the other hand, was unreachable.

This wooden brown table has no power over what happened between me, the guy across, and another girl there, on his phone call, when I thought at least I would perceived the table as a bulkhead that would seclude me from his total mess ambience.

Loud.

I guess, that's how people normally got angry.

Emotional.

I guess, that's what normal people reacting to a break-up.

"Let's just go on our separate way!"

I forgot that I was pretending to be absorbed in the book when I found my self starring at him, with a bit of empathetic-questioning eyes.

The Eleventh Page, I was taking back my eyes down to the book I have been holding only for an hideaway from his cumbersome presence. I read the last three lines.

"... Where I live, everything is so small!"

And, with a perhaps a hint of sadness, he added:

"Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far..."

Right. It somehow pulled me into a revelation that I have been going nowhere. It would be just another day, with the same people to bump, another happiness I beared, another sadness I came through. Life is just... about re-cycling? so far. for me. though.

"Sh*t"

I misheard? Right?

The man in front of me was peeved and imprecated.

Just as staggered as my ear, my neck brought its way up to look him straight at his eyes.

"Sorry..."

So I paid him with a quite forbearing smile. Well- i wasn't really agreeing him about his swear words, but not completely disagreeing, either. People might need rest to be kind, sometimes the evil wanted to go out.

Curse. an offensive word or phrase used to express anger or annoyance.

Curse. I believed in some way, it could awake happy hormones, to make someone at ease, bring you to an overall sense of calm.


And just yet, I found him smiling.
His endorphins already made their way out.

And I was a little culpable.
For eavesdropping on a couple's fight, for witnessing a break-up.
 

December 20, 2017

I was carelessly leaving my umbrella home as I didn't expect it to rain.

The forecast failed me that day and I decide to ensconce my self in a book cafe with a warm heater, at the intersection.

Deemed light, quiet, with only a vacant seat near the window because I thought it was rather cold to sit there, well, no other seats available and I didn't have much choices. I comforted my self first, still thinking of what I would do or at least order a glass of worth-enjoyed drink by myself. People were at least talking with someone across, busy with their earphones, and absorbed in a book. 

I left my bag and got up to the counter.

"Vanilla Latte."

"Iced"

there was a lady behind the counter, maybe two to three years older, frowned at me.

"Iced?" she repeated or asked? I didn't have the idea. I frowned back and she looked like finally assured with my frown. 

"it would be 4.5 dollars."

I left the counter to see around the shelves.

Novel. Romance. Shakespeare's to George Eliot's.

Ah, there's one I have been loving since kid, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Le Petit Prince.

My hand involuntarily took out the book, exactly, at the time my name was called from the counter. My vanilla latte was ready.

They gave me a brown tray.
With a glass of cold vanilla latte, and freebies. 
Two churro-s and chocolate on the white saucer.

And that latter-day, the rain was sadly getting heavier and sky turned dark. It was five to fifteen. And oops! Someone has occupied the seat across where my bag laid.

I would be hurt for him taking anyone's seat but also the guilt would be on me if then I reprimanded giddily.

"your seat?" his very own words travel and firstly laid on my heartbeats, like a pacemaker. I was almost incidentally got arrhythmic from dismay that his voice sounded so collected. No, it's only nothing. I wouldn't say I was mesmerized, just, how he laid his eyes on me ruled my autonomic response. He might take adrenaline before and propagate its effect through either his eyes or voice. Does it sound intellectual? or stupid?

I never known nor read any journals stating adrenaline could deploy through sound or sight, either. But, let's make it sense, first. I wouldn't just be this thumped merely with his single look on me.

"if you don't mind, sharing table is bearable, right?" he continued.

I looked around, scanning the room. No vacant seats, well, he got the point.

That afternoon, the rowdy rains saved me.

 November 18, 2017

He came long after I have been in love with vanilla latte iced too much. He filled the remaining spaces inside my heart and sometimes made me lost of breath because he poured me too much loves with his cheesiness. 

Thing, he never figured out is I finally come with permanent logic that vanilla latte should automatically come with his presence, which make it a lot hurts when he doesn't come along with.

The glass slowly marred with dew around. Small drops, trickling down the tube later, ratting the wooden table, finally and it would be time he came with his cup of americano and composed smile. 

there was no need of texts nor calls. 

there was nothing such appointment.

he just knew it he should come.

Vanilla Latte is not merely a glass of coffee with latte. 

Vanilla Latte I was familiar with were plus his presence and shared earphone, plus our little argue of what to listen, plus a pinch he laid on my cheek, plus the gaze from his small eyes.

September 10, 2017

PROLOGUE

I was putting off the earphones to enjoy one vague song played. I remember when you used to annoy me with loud tape in car, when I was tired and just wanted to shut off from everything. Things you used to annoy me, now is part of every yearning I suffer.

Vanilla latte

a classic espresso beverage with vanilla syrup and creamy milk, just over ice.

a glass of vanilla latte is the most lovable on afternoon, one you used to argue, because it's too sweet. And things still taste the same, it's still sweet, thanks god.
 

you seemed to complain on everything i did over one tall cup of my vanilla latte, getting the table dampen and your book was annoyingly had to be clammy. 

and surprisingly i am still into vanilla latte so much.

i love how it taste and awake me on every cloudy days. one cup can keep me from sleeping over night and you'd nag that you need sleep but i kept wanting to talk to you over the phone, sorry.