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"the coffee shop clock"
<p><br></p><p><br></p><p>Title: “The Coffee Shop Clock”</p><p><br></p><p>I met him at a time I wasn’t looking for love.</p><p><br></p><p>It was a Tuesday morning, too early for anything romantic. I was running late to my freelance writing gig, and the only thing I cared about was coffee. I ducked into the corner café I always went to—half because of habit, half because of the old wooden clock that hung on the wall. It never told the right time, but something about it felt steady.</p><p><br></p><p>He was sitting at the counter with a laptop, sipping something too fancy for that hour. We locked eyes when I ordered my usual and asked for it to be rushed. I must’ve looked like chaos. He smiled anyway.</p><p><br></p><p>The next week, he was there again. We didn’t talk. The week after, I forgot my wallet. He bought my coffee. I tried to say thank you with a quick goodbye, but he laughed and said, “No one really forgets their wallet. You just needed a reason to talk.”</p><p><br></p><p>He was right.</p><p><br></p><p>Over the next few months, we talked more. About everything. Work, music, grief, dreams. He told me he used to come to that café with his mom before she passed. Said the broken clock made her laugh. That’s when I told him why I came too—because it was the only place my anxiety didn’t follow me.</p><p><br></p><p>We never made grand gestures. No fireworks, no drama. Just coffee. Conversations. Little moments. I think that’s how real love begins—not in the big scenes, but in the quiet ones. The ones where someone sees you for who you are and still chooses to sit beside you, week after week.</p><p><br></p><p>We still go back to that café. The clock still doesn’t work.</p><p><br></p><p>But somehow, we do.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p>
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