1. Esperr #2
Keep moving; don’t react. Reacting is how things spiral.
By the time I reach the main road, sweat is already gathering along my spine despite the cold. My calves burn and my knees protest, but I ignore it all. I’ve learned how to push past the pain without breaking.
The cracked sidewalk here is uneven and neglected, but I know exactly where to place my feet—I always do.
Tripping is not an option, and never has been.
My watch ticks quietly against my wrist, counting down my distance and counting the time, but I don’t need to check it.
Numbers have lived in my head since I could walk—distance, the pace, and how long it takes to get from one place to another without ever being seen.
I bite my cheek, picking up my pace as I shove the thoughts back down.
Thankfully the glow of the coffee shop appears ahead, lights spilling through the windows, promising a distraction.
I keep running until I’m right in front of the door, and only then do I stop. My chest heaves as I bend slightly at the waist, hands resting on my knees for exactly three breaths, and then I straighten and smooth my jacket before knocking on the glass.
A shadow moves behind the counter before the lock clicks and the door swings open just enough to let warm air roll out. Sugar and coffee hit my face, sinking into my lungs.
“You ran again,” Eli says, stepping aside to hold the door, letting me in.
I smirk, giving him a curt nod.
Eli shakes his head, flour from his sleeves falling off. He glances down at my shoes that have tracked in dirt.
“Every morning,” he says again.
“Yup.”
I step inside and peel my sweatshirt off; my muscles buzz while my skin feels very sensitive. Kicking the door shut behind me, I slide the lock back into place while Eli stares at me the entire time.
Peering up over at him, he shakes his head, mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “You’re going to wear yourself into the ground if you keep doing this.”
My head tilts to the side. “Not today.”
He huffs out a laugh, turning back towards the counter. “One of these mornings, I’m not opening the door until you sit down first.”
I raise a brow, calling bullshit. “You’d cave.”
“Probably.” And then he’s off, back behind the counter in the kitchen.
The idea of resting makes me pause; I never thought about taking a day off to just do nothing. I don’t even let myself sit unless it’s for sleep.
And I’m tired, like the bone-deep kind of tired, the emotional kind.
But work is better than being at the apartment, and the coffee shop is the place where I can smile and not feel like it’s forced.
And it’s where I used to see him.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, catching me off guard.
It’s stupid.
It’s been a year, and here I am still thinking about him.
I shouldn’t, but I do.
Not constantly, not obsessively, anymore, just quietly. It’s like he exists in the background of my mind, a memory etched into my chest.
He’s so different from that monster in my nightmares. And the feeling catches me off guard every single time.
I remember the way he used to walk in at the same exact time every morning—just as the morning rush would start.
The bell would jingle and I’d automatically look up.
He always wore dark clothes and looked too big for the space—tall, easily over a foot taller than me, broad, and intense.
He never spoke much, hardly at all. But he watched me.
But not like creeps do.
No, he watched me like I was real, like I was someone he wanted to talk to but didn’t know how.
Maybe that says more about me, that I didn’t mind being watched by him. That I didn’t feel unsafe—I felt seen.
That’s embarrassing to admit, even in my own head, but it’s true.
Because if he were stalking me… I didn’t mind. I liked the feeling of being wanted, even if it was silent, even if it wasn’t real.
My chest tightens.
Ugh, I miss him.
I don’t let myself think those words often, but the truth still pulses anyway. He made the worst mornings a little easier by just existing, and then one day he wasn’t there. No explanation, not that I even deserve to have one.
It’s stupid to miss a stranger, but I do. I think about him, and sometimes when the bell jingles, I can’t help but look toward the door like he might walk in again.
I’m so pathetic.
But the ache is still there, soft and so stupid.
Blowing out a breath, I move around the counter and shove my sweatshirt underneath before I start prepping.
Grind the beans and fill the pastry case with what the bakers in the kitchen set out. Wipe down the espresso machine. Fill and arrange the cups, and then organize my markers—the ones I use for doodles. I line them up without really thinking about it—dark to light, cool to warm.
Something about putting them in order settles the ache in my chest. It kind of always has.
I used to draw all the time, before I learned when not to.
Back then, paper was something I had to hide, torn out from notebooks and folded small enough that it disappeared into my pocket. I learned how to erase quickly and how to listen to their footsteps.
But here no one watches my hands.
Here it’s just doodling.
Huffing a sigh, I slide the markers back behind the canister, nudging them out of sight like they belong there.
Drawing hasn’t felt the same, while the urges come and go, they're weaker, almost like it knows it’s not welcome anymore. And it all started fading around the time he stopped coming in.
I hadn’t noticed at first; it was just an empty space, a missing order, and then a chair in the corner that stayed pushed in. I told myself that it didn’t matter; people come and go, that's how things work. People don’t stay. So what would be different about him?
A tray in the kitchen drops, breaking my train of thoughts and causing me to jump.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
Smoothing my hands over the counter, grounding myself to the cool surface, I close my eyes, counting back from ten. I breathe in through my mouth, slow and controlled. By the time I’ve reached one, my pulse has settled back into something I can manage.
Only then do I open my eyes, seeing nothing has changed. The shop is still dimly lit, his chair still pushed in, and the bell over the door stays quiet. Morning light has begun to creep in through the windows, and while I know I shouldn’t, I let myself believe that just for today he’ll come back.