Eliot Hayes
The day started like every other: slow drip of customers who looked like they’d been dragged out of bed by tax deadlines. Noon on a Tuesday in this half-dead capital that nobody can spell and nobody visits. The kind of city where even the pigeons seem depressed.
The grinder whined under my hand, spitting out grounds that smelled like scorched earth. I was half zoned-out, watching the dark dust waterfall into the portafilter, when the bell above the door gave its tired little jingle.
“Morning, darling.”
I looked up. Gabriela stood there in the same pale-blue coat she’d worn every single day since I started here three years ago, its wool so thin at the elbows it was practically lace. Her white hair was twisted into the same perfect bun, held by the same two tortoiseshell pins. She was early, as always. 12:03 on the dot.
“Morning, Gabriela. Usual?”
“You know me too well.” Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes exactly the same way it had the very first time, when I was nineteen and still had misery in my bloodstream.
I don’t do attachments. Learned that lesson hard. The week I turned nineteen I packed one duffel, left a note on the kitchen table, and never went back. This job was supposed to be temporary freedom. Mostly it’s just me and the endless hiss of the steam wand and a playlist that loops the same twelve famous songs until I want to drown myself in the milk pitcher.
But Gabriela… she’s been here since day four. She tips thirty-five, forty percent every time, always scribbles something on the receipt in her spidery handwriting: Best coffee in the Baltics, or For Eli, who makes Tuesdays bearable. She’s the only person who ever asks “How are you?” and then stands there, patient, actually waiting for an honest answer instead of drifting toward the sugar station.
I finished a double espresso for some suit who was already yelling into his AirPods, then bumped Gabriela to the front of the mental queue. Decaf americano, black, no sugar. Doctor’s orders. She jokes that caffeine would send her blood pressure into orbit. I get it; without it I’m basically a succulent that overthinks.
Steam screamed. The machine gurgled like it was clearing its throat.
“So, how are you, sweet Eli?” She leaned one hip against the counter, close enough that I caught the faint rosewater smell that always clings to her clothes.
I wiped a streak of milk off my forearm with the rag that lives tucked in my apron string. “Surviving.”
She arched one silver brow. “Only surviving? Darling, at your age that should be illegal.”
I snorted, soft. “Tell that to this city. Tell that to three years of pretending I’m passionate about latte art for people who don’t even look at me.”
“Have you ever taken a proper holiday? Gone anywhere at all?”
I shook my head. The motion felt heavy.
“Why not?”
I suddenly became very interested in rearranging the blueberry muffins so their burnt tops all faced the same direction. “No one to go with.”
Silence from her end, warm and thoughtful.
“When I was your age,” she said, “I traveled alone. Wasn’t considered proper for girls back then, but my goodness, the places… the men…” She fanned herself with one gloved hand, eyes sparkling like broken glass in sunlight.
Heat rushed to my face so fast I felt dizzy. “Mrs. Smith!”
She laughed, low and delighted. “Sorry, deary. Got carried away.”
“It’s fine.” I slid her coffee across the counter; the cup left a wet comet trail on the wood. “I’ve told you, you’re allowed to traumatize me a little.”
“And I’ve told you to call me Gabriela. Mrs. Smith makes me feel like I should be dead already, and I’m only seventy.”
“Noted. Old habits die hard.”
I was still smiling small and involuntary when the light at the counter dimmed.
Someone tall stepped in beside her, shoulder brushing the pastry case. Broad. Unfamiliar slope of shoulders under a black leather coat that looked cheap.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, a little rough around the edges now. “Where can I find the manager?”
The voice punched straight through my ribs and pinned me to the spot.
I hadn’t heard it in seven years, but my body remembered. Every cell lit up like a warning.
I turned slowly, the rag still twisted in my fist.
He looked older: sharper cheekbones, faint lines around his eyes, the kind of stubble that costs money to maintain. But the storm-gray irises were exactly the same. They hit me like cold water.
He blinked once. Recognition slammed into him too; I saw it ripple across his face.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted with the same half-smirk that used to unravel me in the back row of chemistry class.
“Hey, Eli.”
Seven years ago, I was cross-legged at the foot of my bed, spine curved like a question mark, halfway through some dog-eared billionaire romance the girls at school passed around like contraband. The pages smelled like cheap vanilla body spray and everyone else’s fingers.
The mattress springs groaned. Jonah launched himself down beside me, all elbows and bony knees, head propped on one hand. Afternoon light cut through the half-shut blinds and landed across his face in sharp gold bars. His eyes, storm-cloud gray, caught the light and flashed silver for a second. His half-smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth started a riot in my stomach.
“Still reading that garbage, nerd?”
I grunted, didn’t look up. “It’s background noise.”
“You said it was boring five minutes ago.”
“It is.” I turned a page harder than I needed to. “Billionaire, secretary, blah blah blah.”
He snorted, rolled onto his stomach, and dug the ancient Nokia out of his pocket which he’d found on the 42 bus and somehow got working again. His thumb flew over the buttons, the tinny Snake music beeping like a dying mosquito. I watched his wrist in my peripheral vision. It was too thin, the blue vein standing out under paper-white skin every time he flexed. His hoodie sleeve had crawled halfway up his forearm again. He never had clothes that fit right.
I tried to read, but couldn’t. The words blurred into black ants marching across the page. My eyes kept sliding to him instead: the sharp cut of his cheekbone, the way his hair stuck up in soft brown tufts at the back no matter how many times he raked it down, the tiny freckle just left of his mouth that only showed when he smirked like that.
He caught me.
“What’re you staring at, creep?”
Heat exploded across my face. “Nothing. Zoned out.”
He snapped the phone shut with a plastic clack, shoved it into his pocket, and twisted around until he was sitting cross-legged right in front of me. Close. Too close. Our knees knocked.
“Or,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you were just admiring my handsome features.”
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it. The room smelled like warm dust and the chocolate bar he’d stolen from my fridge earlier, and he always did that, then pretended he hadn’t. I could taste it on the air between us.
I don’t know what possessed me. I just leaned in.
Our lips touched.
One second. Maybe two. His were warm and soft and tasted exactly like the stolen chocolate and something sharper like the spearmint gum he chewed when he was nervous. My eyes were closed. I felt the tiny hitch in his breath.
Then his hands slammed into my shoulders and threw me backward so hard my head bounced off the headboard.
“What the hell, dude?”
The air left my lungs in a rush.
He was already scrambling off the bed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like I’d burned him. His eyes were wide, wild, nothing like the soft gray I loved.
“What is wrong with you?” His voice cracked on the last word. “You fucking freak. Don’t—” He snatched his jacket from my desk chair, the zipper rattling. “Don’t ever come near me again.”
The door slammed so hard the posters on my wall fluttered. The whole house seemed to shake with it. He’d never once raised his voice in this house before. My parents loved him; he called my mum “ma’am” and carried groceries in for her without being asked.
I sat frozen, knees still bent, the billionaire book crushed beneath one hand. My lips tingled. My chest felt like someone had cracked it open and poured ice water inside.
The tears were right there, hot and furious, but they wouldn’t fall yet.
Footsteps in the hallway. Mum’s soft knock.
“Eli? Sweetheart, what was that about? Jonah just ran out like the house was on fire—”
She pushed the door open and saw my face.
Whatever she’d been about to say died in her throat.
I launched myself at her without thinking, crashed into her arms like I was six again instead of fifteen, and finally let the tears come. It was ugly, snotty and loud. I buried my face in her shoulder, breathed in the familiar lavender of her cardigan, and sobbed until my ribs hurt.
She didn’t ask questions. Just held me tight, one hand stroking my hair over and over, murmuring nonsense words that didn’t need to make sense.
That was the day I learned what wanting someone could cost.
I swore I’d never be that stupid again.
In the present day, I forced air into my lungs, in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way the Leddit panic-attack thread drilled into me after year one of therapy I couldn’t afford. My hands were shaking so badly the portafilter rattled against the counter like a shopping cart with a busted wheel.
Seven years.
I’d buried him six feet under in my head, poured concrete, salted the earth.
One flash of those storm-gray eyes and my heart jack-hammered like it had never learned its lesson.
“I’ve got to get going, sweetheart,” Gabriela murmured, already reaching for her cane.
“Yeah. Tomorrow, Gabriela.” I clung to her name like a lifeline.
She moved toward the door in her usual slow shuffle: tap of the cane, scuff of orthopedic shoes, bell’s tired jingle. I counted every single step, using the seconds to staple my face back together.
The door sighed shut.
Silence.
Now it was just us and the hum of the fridge and the blood roaring in my ears.
I made myself look.
He’d filled out, shoulders broad enough that the black T-shirt strained across them, sleeves cutting into muscle that definitely hadn’t existed when we were sixteen and all sharp angles. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble that looked accidental instead of curated, and that half-smirk still hanging crooked on his mouth like it had never learned to leave.
“How can I help you?” Customer-service voice, flat as the milk I’d steamed a thousand times.
“I’m here about the barista position.” Same crooked tilt of the lips, like the past was a joke we were both in on.
My spine locked. I spun away so fast the apron strings whipped my hip. Grabbed a portafilter that was already clean, slammed it into the grinder anyway. Beans exploded like gunfire. The smell of fresh grounds hit me hard... bitter, familiar and nauseating.
“Manager’s office is the door on the left,” I told the wall.
“Thanks. Good to see you, Eli.”
My name in his mouth again. It scraped over the scar tissue like a dull razor.
His boots thudded across the tile and door clicked shut.
I stared at the espresso bleeding into a cup nobody ordered, wasting perfect crema. The manager was going to ream me out for burning product.
Why did you have to come back, Jonah?
Seven quiet years.
You ruined everything in seven seconds flat.
I was finally okay when you were gone.
Seven years ago, the day after the kiss, I spotted him across the cafeteria, same corner table he always claimed, picking at the free ham sandwich like it had offended him. The bread was curling at the edges, gray meat poking out.
My pulse was a hummingbird trapped under my ribs. I’d barely slept. I’d rehearsed apologies all night like I’m sorry, I misread, please don’t hate me, you’re my best friend.
I walked up, tray shaking in my hands.
“Hey, Jonah, listen—”
He didn’t even glance up.
“Hey everybody!” He shot to his feet, climbed onto the plastic chair like it was a stage. Voice loud enough to bounce off every cinder-block wall. “Did you know Eli’s a fag?”
The room froze.
Thirty heads swiveled at once. Forks stopped halfway to mouths. Someone’s milk carton hit the floor and burst.
I felt every stare land on me like needles dragged across skin.
My tray slipped from my fingers and I heard a crash of ceramic, splatter of mashed potatoes and shame.
“Fuck you, Jonah,” I whispered. It came out broken.
The tears were already there, hot and instant.
I ran.
Didn’t stop until I was in the parking lot, lungs on fire, tears blinding me. I skipped the rest of the week, telling my parents the school was “too traumatic right now.” They looked at each other, signed the absence note, and never asked me to go back until I was ready.
I’ve never stopped being grateful for them.
Because that day the boy I’d known since we were five, the one who split his last popsicle with me, who cried into my shoulder when his dog died, the one who I would’ve taken a bullet for died right in front of me.
And something more evil took his place.
After that day I tried, I really tried, to make new friends for the first time since primary school.
I’d walk up to tables in the cafeteria, open my mouth, and watch everyone suddenly discover urgent homework. Eyes slid off me like I was coated in oil. The rumor that crawled through the corridors wasn’t “Eli kissed Jonah.” It was a darker, uglier one: Eli cornered Jonah, Eli did something sick, Jonah had to switch schools because of it. No one ever said the words to my face, but I felt them every time a chair scraped away from me or someone took the long loop around my locker like I might give them a disease.
I turned radioactive overnight.
I finished the last two years as a ghost. Black hoodies two sizes too big, hood always up, eyeliner smudged with yesterday’s tears, earbuds blasting Slipknot so loud my brain vibrated against my skull. I smoked cheap cigarettes behind the gym until the nicotine buzz was the only thing that kept the panic from folding me in half. Emo, not goth, or whatever; I just wanted to look like someone who would bite if you got too close. Because I would have.
Graduation came, and cut my hair short enough that no one from high school would recognize me in a lineup. Got the barista job. Same old city but a new name in their mouths, clean slate. Most people forgot the kid who got called a freak in the corridors.
Jonah disappeared the same week I dragged myself back to class. One day he was there, the next his locker was cleaned out and his name erased from the roll. Rumor said he’d dropped out completely. Reason? Me. Of course it was me. That little detail got tacked onto every group chat screenshot I was never included in.
At least I didn’t have to see his face.
At night, once my parents’ lights clicked off, I’d shove my face into the pillow so they wouldn’t hear. I cried until my throat was shredded and the fabric was soaked through, until snot glued the case to my cheek and the sun crawled back up the wall. I stopped eating anything that wasn’t instant noodles. Stopped booting up my laptop. Stopped laughing at anything ever. My grades fell off a cliff. Mum begged me to see someone, anyone. I screamed that if they forced me I’d be gone by morning and they’d never find me. They backed off, and I stayed broken.
For almost two years I carried it like a second skeleton: I ruined everything. I was the monster. I made him leave.
Then one dawn, senior year almost over, I was lying in bed with swollen eyes and the taste of salt in the back of my throat, thinking about him for the ten-thousandth time, when a thought slid in cold and sharp and clean:
His reaction wasn’t normal.
He was sixteen. I was fifteen. One clumsy, desperate kiss did not justify torching a decade of friendship, screaming my secret to the entire cafeteria, and vanishing like a corpse in witness protection.
I started unpicking it in the dark.
All the things he’d kept locked up: the house he never let me visit, the parents I never met, the bruises blooming under long sleeves some winters that he laughed off as “soccer” or “I walked into a door, classic me.” The way he flinched when teachers shouted, then immediately mouthed off louder, like he was begging the world to finish the job. The way he’d go dead quiet sometimes, staring at nothing, knuckles white around a pencil.
Any decent human being, any straight boy who still wanted a friend, would’ve just said, “Dude, I’m not into guys, but we’re cool, yeah?”
It would’ve stung like a bitch, but I could’ve breathed through it.
Instead he went nuclear.
And I realized, lying there with dawn bleeding grey through the blinds, that whatever made him swing that hard didn’t start with my mouth on his. It started way before me, behind a front door he never let me cross.
For a couple of weeks I still tried to find him. Dialed the old number until the robotic voice told me it no longer existed. Typed his name into search bars at 3 a.m. like a prayer. Nothing. He’d erased himself perfectly.
Then one morning I woke up and didn’t type it. I didn’t cry. I showered, got dressed, went to school. I told myself I was over it. And for a long time, I almost believed I was.