She had seen her one morning, spotted her and her bright, yellow hair, strutting into the coffeehouse. Angelic blue eyes, that matched the translucent butterfly hairpin she had on, met the worker's misty purple, dark with misanthropy and curiosity. In the days of working here, at this part-time job, the blonde was the first person the dark haired girl found herself interested in. Her appearance was just as radiant as her energy, and her voice had the barista startled at the counter, but just as quickly as she came, she left, her red scarf waving back goodbye as she turned the corner out the door.
The blonde had ordered a mocha frappuccino, with chocolate chips on whipped cream.
·
She came back, day after day.
Sometimes, the blonde was able to sit down, often on a large cushy armchair with a shiny new laptop booted up. On those days, she'd order a latte, and while working on a document, take her time to finish the cup. When there wasn't a queue by the counter, the barista would find herself leaning against the counter, watching her patiently. A rare smile would form on her lips, co-workers discussed. The blonde's aura had an impact on her.
She would look good in black, framed glasses.
On days the blonde kept her laptop in a soft, velvet case, she'd pick a new drink from the menu: pumpkin spice latte, peppermint mocha frappe, ice-blended green tea; the list went on. When she figured the blonde was feeling distracted with her phone or her thoughts, the part timer would sprinkle in a couple of toppings, or maybe swirl in a slight bit of chocolate sauce, complimenting the cream. Her fingers would trace the opening of the lid after she put it on her drink, and trace the black markings scrawled across the plastic cup before handing over to her customer.
She learned her name that way.
·
Perhaps it was from a co-worker's nudging.
The barista approached her one day, when business was all too slow for the workers to pay any care to. With a bow, she took a seat in the armchair across the blonde, the latter tracking her intently. Intrigued, questioning, the customer greeted her, and so it was returned with a flash of a smile. With shaky hands and darting, nervous indigo eyes, she introduced herself, and found herself in an intimate conversation with her.
She accidentally asked about relationships in a obscure context.
It may have came off on an odd note, however, because the barista was smothered by the blonde's sympathy. In panic, the server found herself agreeing, and spiralling through a cycle of social complications that never existed in the first place.
The girl took away from this that she was, apparently, a great actor.
As the barista eyes turned away, a faint smile matched with glistening eyes, remembering a failed relationship that never happened, her fingers were met with another's. They were soft and smooth, hands delicate and warm to the touch - nothing like her own callous hands, worn from days of cleaning and working from behind the counter. When she finally found her gaze returning to the blonde's, a faint burning had already formed on her cheeks.
To her, lying to her crush was a great mistake.
An attempt to spark the conversation again. She asked, how things were for the blonde. With a shallow laugh, and a sheepish grin, the comforter revealed a great shame, and a deep secret.
She was still chasing a male from high school.
·
She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up.
As she was stuttering in her chair, a co-worker called her back to the counter. With a bow of the head, she took her leave.
She took her shattered heart and broken dreams with her too.
But she cared. It tore at her chest when the object of her affections approached the counter each new day to ask for a choice of drink; she knowing just how embarrassing her own wishes were, how perhaps both their wishes were. It gnawed at her emotions when she felt to ask how she was doing, how the chase was going, because at the bottom of her heart, the thought that she didn't want to admit was that she wanted the blonde to give up. As jealousy ate at her heart, guilt seeped into her conscience whenever the blonde asked back, about how she was coping with her own issues. They never existed, but here she was, speaking of them as though they mattered, compared to her customer's true feelings.
It was selfish of her to keep the conversations going.
·
Day by day, she found herself griping with her pains. Day by day, she tried to distance herself from her affections.
Day by day, she continued to observe the blonde with great introspection and a heavy heart.
·
It wasn't going well for her. It wasn't going well for her customer too.
Dark bags started developing under the blonde's eyes.
Her presence lessened in the cafe, and whenever she did show up, she'd only manage to tap against the keyboard continuously, never managing to take a sip of the fresh brew. The barista had gotten accustomed to watching the cup of coffee turn cold, a deep desolate sigh escaping her lips as she watched her new skill of developing latte art left to waste.
The blonde's weariness seemed to also affect her own mood in due time, leaving the girl who cared too much wondering in silence during sleepless nights. When she did sail the sea of dreams, however, her thoughts would go to the shines and sparkle of her crush, eyes that reflected the endless skies, the boundless seas, her brilliant mind and sweeter personality. And she would continue to dream about a fresh new adventure they would go on, in a world of fantasy written only in books she had buried herself in as a student.
No matter how much her mind was made up on letting go, her sickly, lovestricken heart could not follow through.
·
It was on her last day of the job that the blonde had fallen asleep at her desk. The barista had found herself needing some time alone, resigning to her own room for a good while was her plan. Her worries cluttered her mind; how her love's chase was unfruitful yet unfailing, and how oblivious the blonde's love interest was. An ideal person of extreme perfection, left unnoticed and underrated, left chasing the boy who captured her heart for days and days on end.
It was a deep shame she could not comfort her.
As she was leaving her last shift, a black bag slung over her shoulders, contrasting a white blouse, she towered over the blonde for one last moment - a silent goodbye, to the one who was slumbering. The dark bags under the sleeper's eyes had been effortlessly covered in make up, in attempt to look as perfect as she did months ago. The blonde had not applied her usual glossy lipstick today, the ex-barista observed, and her laptop was dim, open to an article she was still editing. The creamy brown cardigan that hung loosely from her shoulder was readjusted, making sure the customer was well blanketed in the cold cafe.
With a quick motion, the dark haired girl left through the door.
·
Her eyelashes fluttered as she woke. There was a mild itch on her forehead, and a slight warmth at the center of it. Blinking the sleep away, she watched a contrast of black and white elegantly pass through the doorway, a jingling of bells ringing softly faraway. Rising from the desk, she yawned, drowsy and groggy, before stretching backwards, arms stretched out. Her butterfly clip rested on the desk, in which she remembered not taking it off, but it laid right beside her coffee which was left untouched again. Maybe that would wake her up.
As she raised the cup to take a sip, she notice the milk formed the shape of a heart.
It meant nothing to her.
a/n: its 2016 why am i still here; BETTER QUESTION WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE HOLY SHIT GO FOLLOW THE CROWD ISNT THIS PLACE DEAD YET