The bells chime as I open the door of the coffee house. The strong scent of coffee hits my nostrils and I wholeheartedly welcome the whiff. I momentarily close my eyes. It’s happening again.
I order my favorite vanilla coffee before I sit near at the far end, near the window. I try to calm my shaking hands, but I won’t succeed. I expel some frustration. I look outside the café and nothing soothes me. It all comes back.
How I’ve tried to save our dying hopes; how I’ve done my best to be the best for her; how I’ve burned myself in the fire I started. I can’t forget how sweet her smile was back then and how she suddenly crashed it for it. How she broke the news that I wasn’t the father, but my brother.
“Your coffee, sir.” A loud thud before I open my eyes. I nod at the young man. “Thank you.”
I snatch out my notebook and pen. I sip on my coffee and the hot fluid flows through my insides. A fuel that drives me. I give myself a small smile. I open a page and begin writing. For her and, what I think is, for us.
Two words that I keep on saying to myself for two years. Two words that break me apart, but makes me feel whole. Two words that frustrate me, but make me hold on my hopes. Two words that make me question if how long can I hold on. Such a deadly consequences for two little words.