She Always Wrote My Name
I’ve started coming here every day. Not for the coffee — not really.
It’s decent, sure. Better than the machine in the philosophy building. But it’s her. The way she says my name like it’s a question she’s already answered. “James.” Written in loopy black ink across the cardboard cup.
The first time she asked for it, I barely got the syllables out. She smiled — quick, like a flicker — and nodded as if she already knew. Maybe she did.
I sit at the back, in the corner with the plug socket and the view of the counter. I sip slowly. I pretend to read. The cup stays warm in my hands longer than it should. I keep the empty one tucked into my rucksack. That’s not strange, right?
— -
By the third visit, she remembers my order.
Flat white, oat milk. No hesitation. She turns before I speak and writes it down. Doesn’t ask. Just writes. My name again — the same loop on the ‘J’. It’s definitely a loop, not a mistake. A curl of some kind. I’m sure of it.
She says, “See you tomorrow?” like it’s a question she already knows the answer to.
I nod. Say something like, “Probably.” But my heart’s doing double time. I replay those four words all night. I write her name in the margin of my notebook, even though I don’t know it yet.
— -
The fifth time, our fingers touch.
Not much — just the tips. But hers are warm, and mine are clumsy, and I almost drop the cup. She laughs — not at me, just near me. I mumble thanks, forget my change, and nearly walk into the table leg.
She says, “James,” again, but quieter. I don’t know if it’s just in my head.
Back in my seat, I stare at the way she’s written it. The curve. The shape of it. I wonder how many times she’s written my name and if this one — this single cup — feels different in her hand too.
— -
Seventh visit. It’s raining hard. The windows fog, and the smell of coffee is sharp and earthy.
She arrives late — hair damp, cheeks pink, laughing with the other barista. Something about the weather, I think. I don’t catch it.
Today’s the day. I’ve decided. I’m going to say something. Not much. Just “Hi, I’m James” — which is redundant, obviously — but something more than “Thanks.”
I step up. She’s turning to the machine, already halfway through my order. I open my mouth — “Hi, um — “
But she hands me the cup and turns before I finish. “Enjoy your coffee!” she says, still laughing with her friend.
I look down. It just says James. Plain. No loop. No heart.
I sit. I don’t drink it. I don’t throw it away either.
— -
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Tenth visit. I nearly don’t come.
She looks tired. Her hair’s up. No makeup today. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I say “Thanks” — soft, but on purpose.
She looks up.
She hears me. I know she does. Her smile is slower this time, and it lands somewhere deep.
The cup says “James :)”
I don’t know how I didn’t cry. I just stared at it for ten minutes. My sandwich went cold. I held the cup too tight.
I took it home.
— -
This morning, I imagine all the ways that I might ask her out.
She’s there. Early. Calm.
I walk in. She doesn’t ask. Just starts making it.
She hands me the cup. Our fingers don’t touch this time.
“Have a good one,” she says, eyes already moving to the next customer.
I sit. I breathe.
Then I see it.
My name. And under it: **Isla ❤️ 07873 42… call me?**
I reread it three times.
I pull out my phone. My hands are stupid. Slow. I type in the number. Stare at the digits. Thumb hovers.
I press call.
She’s at the counter. Wiping something down. Her phone lights up. She picks it up, frowns a little, then answers.
“Hello?”
My mouth is dry.
“Isla?”
She turns.
