(Part I of “The Coffee We Never Had”)

The night before, she couldn’t sleep. 

Not even for a moment.

She tossed and turned, her mind running ahead of the day that hadn’t yet come.

She wasn’t sure what she was afraid of: crossing a line, naming a feeling, or simply being seen too clearly.

She didn’t want to define anything.

She didn’t want to break what was already fragile.

She just wanted things to stay the same, except they couldn’t.

Because whenever she looked at him, and he looked at her, they both knew.

Something more existed between them.

Something unnamed, but unmistakable.

Still, she told herself this was fine. Just coffee.

But the thought of sitting across from him, alone, terrified her.

She imagined the drive there, the moment they might meet in the car park, the way the silence between them could tip into something else. She worried that if they drove together, things might unfold faster than she was ready for.

And so she stayed awake, playing out every version of the morning, none of which helped her breathe any easier.

By dawn, she had picked the perfect outfit. A crisp white shirt, one of her favourites. A soft cardigan. Slightly ripped jeans, just enough edge to soften the nerves. Brown tassel loafers. A touch of makeup. Polished but natural. Intentional but effortless. 

She was ready.

The sky opened as she left. Rain poured down in thick, unrelenting sheets, the kind that blurred the world into silver and grey. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care how slow she drove or how hard it rained. All that mattered was getting there and seeing him.

 She kept the music low, the wipers moving rhythmically like her heartbeat. She tried to stay calm, to anchor herself in the sound of rain, in the hum of the car. But her hands still trembled against the wheel.

 When she finally arrived, she sent a single word. A light-hearted message, a simple way to say, I’m here. 

Then she waited.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Nothing.

She told herself maybe he was running late. Maybe something had come up.

Thirty minutes passed. Still nothing.

The unease grew heavy in her chest. She didn’t want to spiral, so she stood up, walked out, and went to get herself a coffee. The warmth of the cup in her hand steadied her, if only a little.

But when she came back, still no message.

And something inside her cracked.

A part of her already knew.

He wasn’t coming.

Still, she hoped.

Still, she checked.

And then she saw it, something that confirmed her fears.

He wasn’t on his way. He wasn’t delayed. He simply wasn’t coming.

Anger came first. Then the worry.

It wasn’t just disappointment. It was disbelief.

How could someone who seemed to care so much choose silence instead?

She sat there, drenched in confusion and hurt, mascara smudged faintly from the rain or maybe from tears she hadn’t realised she’d shed. She tried to keep it together, to be graceful, to remind herself she didn’t need to make a scene.

But her mind kept looping through questions that had no answers.

Why didn’t he say something?

A stranger deserved a sorry, I can’t make it.

A colleague deserved something came up.

A friend deserved an explanation

And someone who meant more than friendship deserved honesty.

 

He gave her none.

Hours passed. 

She went about the rest of her day, moving through her tasks on autopilot. Every time she reached for her phone, she hoped for a message. Something. Anything.

 When she finally got back to her car, there it was.

 A message.

 Short. Casual. Empty.

And it ended with a smiley face.

 Her heart dropped. 

The smiley felt like salt on a wound.

Like pretending the storm hadn’t happened.

She was furious.

Not the loud, dramatic kind of anger but the quiet, trembling kind that makes your throat ache, that makes it difficult to breathe.

 

It was the first time she had ever felt avoidance so directly.

The first time she’d realised how silence can hurt more than words ever could.

 

She packed her things, left, and drove home in silence.

Tears blurred her vision.  She didn’t even try to wipe it away. She permitted herself to feel the hurt.

When she finally walked through her door, she thought maybe, just maybe, he would reach out again.

An explanation. An apology. Something human.

But instead, a new message came through.

Not words. Not honesty.

 

A podcast!

 

She stared at her screen in disbelief.

It wasn’t just the avoidance anymore. It was the absurdity of it.

And in that moment, she broke.

She whispered to herself, "I’m too valuable to be treated casually".

Then she repeated it.

Until the words became a vow.

From that point, she decided to rise differently.

Not in rage, but in grace. To make him miss what he had dismissed.

 

And that’s how The Wait began.

But a look changed everything. 

Read the Intro by clicking the link: The coffee we never had

Then comes the wait 

(Part I of “The Coffee We Never Had”)

(Part I of “The Coffee We Never Had”)

(Part I of “The Coffee We Never Had”)