A Breakup Story
I’m sitting in DreamBrew, the coffee shop that only exists when my mind is a mess, its flickering chandeliers casting shadows that feel like they’re judging me. The air smells of espresso and regret, and my Anxiety Latte is steaming in front of me, its bitter edge mirroring the knot in my stomach. Across the wobbly table, you’re sipping a Midnight Deadline Drip, your eyes fixed on the cup like it holds answers I can’t give. This place runs on anxiety, not money, and right now, I’m overpaying.
I didn’t plan to do this here, in this surreal haze where the walls pulse with my old fears — missed deadlines, forgotten birthdays, the time I cried in front of my boss. But maybe that’s why it’s perfect. DreamBrew thrives on the stuff we don’t say, and I’ve been holding this in too long. The barista, a shadowy figure who looks like my high school English teacher, slides past with a smirk, like they know what’s coming. They probably do. This place feeds on moments like this.
I take a breath, and the words spill out, jagged and raw. “I can’t do this anymore.” Your face freezes, the coffee halfway to your lips. The jazz in the background warps into a low hum, like a heartbeat slowing down. I keep going, because if I stop, I’ll drown in the what-ifs. “It’s not you, not exactly — it’s us. We’re stuck, circling the same fights, the same…
