I visit this coffee shop a lot. The building never changes, but the people do. Every year or so new college-bound students come here in search of a job and a new beginning. To start fresh and meet new people.
When I first came here, I had my new beginning. But my new beginning quickly became my end. I’m stuck here, and I don’t have the energy to leave. My friends have all left after they graduated to pursue their dreams, and I’m still here.
I met him on our first day of an overseas trip. A group of twenty students, current and graduated, including me were taking a plane to Europe where we would explore Germany, Italy, and Switzerland for ten days. He walked up to me as we were waiting to board our plane, and I could barely hold a conversation with the bubble of anxiety strangling my thoughts.
I would say we hit it off immediately, but that isn’t true.
Back then, I’d say my mental health was the worst it ever was. Standing in the middle of the airport in a T-shirt and sweatpants, my backpack over my shoulders and my hands strangling my phone, fingers mindlessly scrolling to keep myself busy. Strangers bustled around me in every direction, the only thing I could focus on as I struggled to breathe through my anxiousness. This was the longest I would have been away from home at the time, and being surrounded by people I didn’t know sent my social anxiety at an all time high. And then he came.
As I was fiddling with my phone for the fiftieth time, I paid no attention to movement in my peripheral vision until he began talking, his voice deep and curious, starting off with “So…” I glanced up, hardly processing who was in front of me; looking, but not seeing as he asked if I had ever been on a plane before. I told him not since I was eight, and he asked to see my plane ticket.
Such a creative way to learn my name.
Gesturing with his hands, he described where my seat would be and I smiled in gratitude, too anxious to talk with the lump in my throat, and the shuffling of my feet that couldn’t stand still. He asked about my name, and I told him it was from a show. An unexpected laugh that was rich and smooth sounded from him, mixing in with the chatter around us, and yet very distinct. He said his name probably came from a baby book, and all I did was smile tensely. The anxiety I felt prevented me from seeing the obvious cue to ask what his name was, so it remained a mystery for days.
Now, I wring my hands together, taking deep breaths to calm the crushing feeling in my chest. The anticipation is building as I sit in the same place where we had talked many times before. It’s been three years since then, after we had failed to say goodbye as he walked out of the airport to see his mom, and as I stood by mine. We had each other’s numbers, and throughout those years we kept contact on and off, as often as my moods bounced between horribly anxious and feeling content. He was tired of my fickleness, and I was tired of being misunderstood. We haven’t spoken since then.
Until I texted him yesterday.
The sound of a bell rang through the air, a sign that the door opened. I stiffened in response, waiting to see if it was him as I stared down at the lukewarm espresso in front of me. The stool across from me moved slightly as he sat down, and I immediately felt nauseous at the thought of the conversation we had to have.
Anxiety washed over my body as I pursed my lips. His hands appeared on the table, fingers lacing together. I started to remember how his dark, rough skin glided across my tan, smooth hands. How we held them as we walked across Venice together.
That day we had driven there from our hotel in Switzerland early in the morning, days had passed after we had first met. A little less after he sat next to me on the bus after someone sat in his seat. Even less after he first held my hand under my blanket that we shared. I had begun to look forward to our talks about nothing and everything. But that morning he wasn’t in a great mood, and after he sat next to me there was silence. I plugged my earphones in and my walls built stronger around me.
After the bus ride we went to a glass-blowing building, where we watched demonstrations and gazed at sculptures in their displays. He had tried to talk to me a few times, and I responded with a small, polite small smile and kept walking. It was then that I really felt alone, because I had turned him into my safety net over the course of the trip. Without him, I was just me. Anxious and lonely.
I didn’t really speak until we got to roam around the city after our chaperone let us go. He had grabbed my hand and pulled me with him, persistent in getting through the barrier I built around myself. I remember we went to a museum and rode in a Gondola, traveling in the blazing heat filled with crowds of tourists talking and taking pictures.
I remember how I sat on a low stone wall in the shade where he stood between my legs, the same hands resting beside either of my thighs before we left the city back to our hotel. Those same hands that caressed me face at sunset, sitting in front of a bonfire before he kissed me. Dark, brown eyes lit up by the fire behind us filled with warmth and adoration.
I remember how I pushed him away for years when I wanted to be alone. And now we’re here.
I slowly looked up at him, to see that he’s already looking at me. A black jacket encased his arms over a light grey shirt, full lips pulled into a tight line, nose wide and slightly flared, dark eyes staring back at me. No anger, no regret, no contempt. His eyes were filled with love and hurt, and I hated myself for causing the latter.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
He nodded.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I just – I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
“For?”
His pained, deep voice sent shudders down my spine. Tears formed in my eyes as I remembered how we stayed up on the phone at night talking, how we would steal glances at each other when we were near, how his infectious laugh made me fall in love with him.
How it was all about to end.
“Everything,” I spoke. I took a sip of my cold, black coffee to soothe my painfully dry throat before I looked back into his brown eyes. “I was terrible to you; pushing you away because I couldn’t trust you, pulling you back in when I thought I was okay. I’m sorry for never opening up to you; for never telling you how much I loved you.” I cast my gaze down toward the table, fiddling with my nails.
A moment passed before his hand reached out and held mine. “You know I hate that,” he said with the tiniest bit of amusement. I gave him a small, forced smile and he moved his hands away and asked “Why did you leave?”
I let out a sigh at the expected question. “I didn’t want to.” He waited for me as I gathered my thoughts.
“Ever since middle school, I’ve been kind of…emotionally compromised, I guess you could say. I’ve always been bullied when I was younger – by my own friends too – and when I was finally fed up with it I held everyone at a distance. Hell, I was going to, you know, in seventh grade and all my mom said was ‘You think you’d go to Heaven if you did that?’ Typical Black-Parent Syndrome. All I felt since then was pure defeat. The only person I’ve ever had as a constant in my life was me, and I learned to cope with the endless anxiety and loneliness, I guess. And I felt – feel – like I have no one. I couldn’t – I can’t trust anybody.” I drank more coffee to push down the enormous bubble floating in my chest.
Before I continued, he cut me off. “I tried so hard to get you to trust me – to trust someone after all you’ve been through-”
“You can’t fix me,” I whispered. “You can’t save everyone,” he shook his head, about to reject the idea but I continued, “you have this hero complex. You’ve been trying to fix me, you tried to fix your last girlfriend before she cheated on you – multiple times, you tried to fix the relationship with your Mom who never really bothered to give you the time of day.” The faintest outline of a tear rolled down his cheek before he wiped it away quickly. “You’re trying to fix your best friend who was assaulted months ago, even though he hasn’t talked to you since then. You can’t fix anyone unless they want to fix themselves.”
A troubled breath left his lips and I sniffed in response. “You have such a kind and generous heart, but that will be your downfall if you don’t put yourself first.”
“Is this what you brought me here for?”
I smiled ruefully. “No, that’s not why I brought you here.” I glanced around the small café, taking in the sweet and bitter smell of coffee and the sound of the silent chatter as I gathered my thoughts. “I just – I feel so alone all the time. Anything and everything makes me so anxious that sometimes I can’t even breathe and most days I don’t even want to. I stopped talking to my friends because I know it’s draining being around me, and they’ve even said it themselves. They don’t and they will never understand me, no matter how many times I explain to them how my mind works. Either that or they just don’t care. So I stopped opening up to people because no one will ever care or understand or care to understand me-”
“All I’ve ever done is care to understand you.”
I held back a sob as I responded, voice watery with emotion. “I know that now. You are, by far, the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever met. And even though it was fleeting, I did – I do – trust you. I never want you to think that I didn’t. I don’t want you to think that I never loved you either, because I always will.” He reached out to hold my hand and I let him. My chest tightened unbearably and threatened to suffocate me. “I knew you loved me and I took advantage of that, and I am so sorry.”
He wiped a tear that fell from my eye. “I will always love you, too. You deserve so much more than what you got; you deserve to be happy, and I’m sorry I couldn’t give that to you.”
I shook my head. “You did, even when we weren’t together.” I breathed out. “Whenever I pushed you away, I threw myself into work to try and ignore everything and everyone, which obviously isn’t healthy. So I decided to take your advice and start going to therapy. But I think we should both try to move on. You deserve more than what I can give right now.”
The corner of his lips quirked up a little, his hand still on my cheek. “Is that a ‘one day’?”
Biting back a sad laugh, I said, “It’s maybe one day. If, somehow, we meet again in the future, and we’re both in better places, maybe we can try again.” He stands up and I follow as he immediately reaches for a hug. We stand there for a while, breathing each other in one last time before we part ways. Once he pulled back, he planted a light kiss on my cheek before he reached in his pocket, took out a five-dollar bill and placed it on the table. Knowing what I’m about to say, he sends me a look before I start talking. An easy, grateful smile stretches across my face as he starts to leave.
“See you.”
“See you,” I called back to him.
The bell rang again as he walked out the door, and I felt myself drowning.