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: Chan, 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, Chan. 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. Not even my friends believed me anymore. Maybe with good reason, maybe just because they have the patience of a jammed door. A few days ago, when I decided to open my heart to Minho and told him about the waiter at the coffee shop, the response I got was a laugh so loud it probably made the neighbors think he was having a breakdown. He said — with that mocking tone typical of someone who thinks they know more about your life than you do — that he didn’t know if the “black-haired boy” was real or if I was having a meltdown, hallucinating from eating so much food of “questionable origin.” His words. As if the horrible coffee here had hallucinogenic properties.
Of course I wasn’t going to let that slide. Wounded pride, stubbornness running high. I said I’d prove he existed with a photo, that I’d take a really good one and send it as undeniable evidence. The problem is that this decision, although it seemed brilliant in my indignation-inflamed head, ended up being... less than brilliant. Now I owed Minho a photo. Of the waiter. As if I were trying to document a mystical entity for a paranormal report.
But let’s be honest, it couldn’t be that complicated. It was just a photo. A discreet photo. An innocent phone click, nothing major. Who hasn’t done that? People do it all the time: to show the crush to the group, to expose the ex’s questionable haircut, to eternalize that aesthetic moment with a crooked coffee mug. Taking a photo isn’t a crime. Just one click. Simple. Fast. Painless.
I grabbed my phone, took a deep breath, and positioned it with the utmost care, like I was setting up a sophisticated ambush. I aimed at the counter, adjusting the angle to capture his face — clear enough to be recognizable, but not so obvious that I’d look like a maniac secretly snapping pictures of a stranger. We were on the edge between curiosity and crime. He was turned sideways, placing my order on the tray. A perfect moment, almost cinematic. I just had to press the button. Simple. Fast. Painless.
Or at least it would have been, if I hadn’t forgotten the most important detail: the flash.
The burst was so intense that for a second I thought God had hit the reality reset button. A white explosion shot through the coffee shop, like I had unleashed a solar flare in an enclosed space. The waiter — the man from my daydreams — jumped, flinging the piece of cake away like it was a cursed object. I blinked, frozen, as he brought a hand to his eyes, stumbling dramatically like a school play character struck by divine vision.
— I’M BLIND! — he screamed so loudly I was sure even the pigeons outside went silent in shock.
And me? Well… I stood there paralyzed, phone still in hand, wishing I could turn into anything inanimate: a chair, a chipped tile, a forgotten piece of toast in the corner of the room. Anything that didn’t breathe and wasn’t attracting every eye in the establishment.
— That’s it! I’m done! I’ll never be able to serve anyone again! Who did this?! Who’s the criminal with the camera?
The coffee shop erupted into collective commotion. Some people stood up, others stifled laughter, and I stayed there, both spectator and cause of my own personal apocalypse. It was like living out a movie scene, except instead of being the charming hero, I was the idiot ruining everyone’s day.
— Hey, you! — his voice cut through the air, and before I could pretend ignorance or make a run for it, he pointed directly at me, still blinking furiously. — You’re the one responsible for this! You’re gonna pay for this trauma, you hear me?
My brain was still trying to process what was happening, but my body, traitorous as ever, just gave a nervous smile, like that was some kind of valid excuse. You know that crooked smile of someone who just wrecked an entire social situation and thinks an “oops” will fix it? Yeah, that one.
— Everything’s white! Feels like I’m stuck inside a toothpaste tube!
— I’m sorry! — I finally stammered, raising my free hand like I was surrendering. — It was an accident...
He came closer, stopping right in front of me, and even with his eyes half-closed from pain or indignation — or both — he looked incredibly handsome. I hated that. Hated the fact that even hating me, he looked like someone out of a summer commercial.
— You took a picture of me?!
— I... I just wanted to prove to my friend that you exist...
For a second, an awkward silence hung between us, thick like broken air conditioning on a hot day. Then he took a step back, genuinely offended.
— And do I look like a ghost to you, that you have to prove I exist with a photo?
— It’s just that no one believed me... — my voice faded, crumbling into shame.
He sighed like he was carrying the weight of the world, and when he spoke, his tone was pure exhaustion:
— Listen, kid. I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning. An old lady came in earlier and called me names I’m not even sure are legal. And I had to smile. I had to smile! All I wanted was to tell her to get a hobby and stop ruining my life, but no, I kept quiet. And now, now, the last thing I needed was to go blind because you decided to prove to the world that I’m real!
— I already apologized... — I whispered, now genuinely wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, phone, flash, and all.
And that’s how, in under five minutes, I managed to:
Temporarily blind the love of my life;
Create a dramatic scene worthy of a low-budget movie;
And deeply regret not checking my camera settings beforehand.
Jeongin — yes, I only noticed his name on the badge at that very moment, after two weeks of religious visits to the coffee shop, but in my defense, his smile was way too distracting — walked away from the counter. I thought he was going to ignore me forever, or worse, kick me out with a dirty napkin. But no. He came back. With the coffee. And, believe it or not, with his phone in hand.
— There — he said, taking a picture of me and putting his phone away. — Now I’ve also got a photo of the reason for my blindness.
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled up in shame and panic.
— First of all, you’re not blind. It’s temporary! Second... I offer you this coffee as a symbol of peace.
He looked at me like I had offered him a demonic contract.
— Symbol of peace, huh? — he picked up the cup with a crooked, almost criminal smile. — Looks like someone ran this through the inside of a child’s shoe after they spent all morning running.
He sniffed the coffee and made a face worthy of awards. And then, against all human reason, he drank it. One sip. Just one.
Time stopped. Literally. He froze. Blinked. And then...
Spat it out. Hard. So theatrically I felt the impact hit me square in the face. That was it. Final humiliation.
— YOU DRINK THIS?! — he exclaimed, like I had tried to poison him with sulfuric acid.
— I... I just wanted to prove I was a normal customer...
— Normal customer?! After this, you deserve a trophy just for surviving! This coffee is a chemical weapon! And you left the camera flash on! Are you trying to eliminate me?!
I laughed. Nervously. And also because there was no way it could get any worse.
— Look, it was an accident...
— Accident, huh? First you blind me, then you poison me, and now you ruin my day. If anyone asks how I lost my patience, I’ll show them your photo!
Jeongin sighed and leaned on the table, looking at me with that glint in his eye of someone who had surrendered to the absurd.
— Listen, despite all your attempts to ruin me today, I’d still go on a date with you.
I froze. A date?
— As a gesture of peace, of course — he continued. — And also of apology. Because honestly, you owe me that.
I agreed so fast I looked like a bobblehead. He laughed, short and sarcastic.
— Alright then. Meet me at 7 p.m. Right here. I still need to earn a few more tips before I quit this hellhole.
I blinked, processing everything. He stood up, but before leaving, he dropped one more gem:
— Oh, and that coffee... that was the last straw. After today, I’m never coming back here. Cockroaches run marathons behind the counter, you know?
— Chan — I said, before he disappeared.
— Huh?
— My name, Chan. Nice to meet you.
He smiled, tapping his badge.
— Jeongin. Nice to meet you, Chan.
And with that, he walked away. And I stayed there, red as a tomato, but smiling like a fool. Because even being a walking disaster, that had been the best day of my life.