Chapter Text
Have you ever stopped to think about the sacrifices we make for things that, at first glance, maybe didn’t even deserve that much effort? Those repeated gestures that become routine, even when everything around you screams that you should give up? Like when we convince ourselves it’s worth overriding common sense for a feeling that might not even be mutual. It’s almost ridiculous, when you stop to think about it. But love — or almost love, or maybe love, or just the sweet and disastrous idea of it — has that effect. We pretend it’s by chance. That it’s just a detour. A habit. A refuge. But deep down, we know. We always know.
And that’s why I’m here. Again. In the same café that seems to have been forgotten by God, by food critics, and by any minimum sense of hygiene. A café that, instead of smelling like fresh coffee and cake coming out of the oven, smells like despair, old grease, and a generous pinch of “this place should’ve been shut down last week.”
The wooden counter creaks like it’s begging for retirement, the tables are slightly crooked, and the cutlery has marks that defy any attempt at polishing. The coffee? A crime against kidneys. The toast? Burnt on 70% of its surface, with the other 30% being raw bread. And the chocolate cake… ah, the cake… it has the texture of a dish sponge and the flavor of absolutely nothing. A pastry tragedy.
Not to mention the cockroach. That damn thing. Brown, bold, with athletic airs. I’ve already seen it make the full journey from the counter to the back door, like it’s the place’s mascot. Maybe it even has a name. A name tag. A life story.
And still, I come. Every day. Without fail. Without giving myself the luxury of shame. Like someone fulfilling a divine mission.
Then you ask me, and rightly so:
Hyunjin, my son, why do you subject yourself to this daily gastronomic and sanitary martyrdom? What’s so special about this place that makes you keep coming back?
And I take a deep breath, look at the grimy ceiling and confess: the waiter.
Yes. The waiter. The reason I ignore all my internal survival alerts. Him, with that smile that could easily star in a toothpaste commercial or a summer teen drama. He has eyes that laugh before his mouth does, and a slightly mocking way of moving, like he floats through the world with too much lightness to be real. He’s attractive in a way that bothers you, not because he’s unreachable — but because he makes you believe, for a second, that he might be reachable.
I saw him for the first time on a rainy day, with wet hair stuck to his forehead and a crooked apron. He handed a slice of pie to an old lady and smiled like he was offering a piece of heaven. I, on the other side of the room, with the horrible coffee in hand, almost choked. Since then, I’ve been trying not to look like an idiot every time our eyes meet.
Spoiler: I failed miserably.
He doesn’t know my name. Doesn’t know I exist beyond the order scribbled on a grimy notepad and the shy tip left in the jar on the counter. He has no idea I spend my afternoons inventing possible conversations we never had, with happy endings that never happened. In my head, he’s already laughed at one of my jokes, already asked me out, already held my hand with a slightly shy smile. In real life, the only thing he’s ever done is ask me:
The usual?
But today… today might be different. Because today he’s walking toward me. And that, in itself, is already a small revolution. He walks slowly, like someone who knows he’s being watched — and maybe he does. His black hair is held back with a headband, keeping his bangs out of his eyes. The black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and the white apron is stained with something I honestly don’t even want to know.
— You again? — he asks, with that amused, raspy voice of someone who just laughed at an inside joke. His eyes shine, as if hiding some kind of tease.
And I smile. Or at least I think I do. Because nervousness sends my face into some kind of collapse where all the muscles decide to work against me.
— I guess someone likes our coffee…
Dramatic pause. My heart skips a beat.
— At least someone likes this dirty water — he adds, almost whispering, and his laugh is an emotional comet of destruction straight to the center of my chest.
Okay. Focus, Hyunjin. Focus. This is your chance to be charming. Or at least functional.
I open my mouth, ready to say something witty. A light joke, maybe. An ironic comment to show that I’m also funny and worthy of attention. But what comes out is:
— Ah… it’s just… you know… uhhh…
Great. A compilation of vowels and hesitation. If there were an award for awkwardness, I just broke a world record. My brain abandoned me at the most crucial moment, like an employee quitting the day before a project launch. And there I am, standing like a misaligned lamppost, staring at the most beautiful human being to ever step foot in that dump.
— A cup of cake and a slice of coffee, please — I say.
Yes. I said that. Switched the order. And the names. I… I’m a walking joke.
He lets out a low, muffled laugh, almost affectionate, like he doesn’t want to humiliate me. Or maybe he’s just holding back from laughing in my face. Which is kind of sweet of him.
— Got it, I’ll bring your order, just a moment.
And just like that, he leaves. Walks away with the same lightness as before, the same irritating grace that made me fall for him in the first place. The sound of worn sneakers lightly dragging on the waxed floor. The hair bouncing.
And I stay there, soul in shambles and face burning, wondering how many more times I’ll be able to humiliate myself before finally giving up. Or… maybe… before he realizes that, even while stumbling over my words and mixing up my orders, I’m trying. Every day. Like someone patiently waiting for a happy ending — even when the cake tastes like soap and the only good thing about the coffee is him.
Maybe the sacrifice is worth it, after all.