JANICE

The Regular Who Found Love

There's this guy, let's call him Marcus, who came in every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 8:45 AM for two years. Always ordered the same thing - medium dark roast, splash of oat milk. He'd sit at the window counter, laptop open, headphones on, completely absorbed in his work.

What Marcus didn't notice (but I did) was that another regular - we'll call her Sarah - always chose the table near him, despite plenty of other seats being free. She'd steal glances while pretending to read her kindle. The funny thing? She used to order cappuccinos, but after a few months of sitting near Marcus, she switched to dark roast with oat milk.

One particularly busy Thursday, I "accidentally" ran out of oat milk at the counter. Had to get some from the back, which meant Marcus had to wait an extra minute. Just long enough for Sarah to work up the courage to make a comment about his mechanical keyboard (she'd been eyeing it for weeks).

That thirty-second delay led to a ten-minute conversation about mechanical keyboards, which led to them sitting together, which led to exchanging numbers. They still come in together every Tuesday and Thursday, sharing the window counter, both drinking dark roast with oat milk.

Sometimes the smallest nudge is all people need. I've never told them about the oat milk thing. Some stories are better left in the background, like the perfect cup of coffee that helps them tell their own tale.

The Sketch Artist

There's this woman who comes in every afternoon, always with her sketchbook. She draws everything - the steam from coffee cups, the way light falls through our front windows, people's hands as they type. But there was one sketch I happened to glimpse that was different - a detailed portrait of someone, drawn from memory by the look of it. The care in every line was obvious.

Last week, as I was clearing tables, I noticed her suddenly stop sketching mid-stroke. Following her gaze, I saw what had caught her attention - a woman who'd just walked in, ordering a cappuccino. The same woman from the portrait, though older now. The sketch artist's hands were trembling slightly as she closed her book.

They didn't notice each other at first. The cappuccino woman was absorbed in her phone, the sketch artist pretending to be busy with her current drawing. But then the cappuccino woman looked up, scanning for a free table, and their eyes met. Time seemed to stop for a moment.

"Claire?" the sketch artist said softly. "Rachel... I didn't know you were back in town." They spoke for hours that afternoon. I caught fragments - art school, Paris, missed connections, timing never quite right. The sketch artist finally showed her the portrait, drawn from their last meeting years ago.

They're both regulars now. The sketch artist still draws everything, but now she has a favorite subject who sits across from her, drinking cappuccinos and talking about art galleries in Paris.

Growth in Small Steps

I started noticing him about six months ago - fresh graduate by the look of his worn interview suit and nervous energy. He'd come in before each interview, reviewing notes, muttering responses under his breath. The rejections were visible in his gradually slumping shoulders, the way his coffee would go cold while he stared at his laptop.

But he kept coming back. I watched his transformation in small details - how his questions during phone interviews evolved from hesitant to confident, how his posture straightened over time, the way he started helping other nervous interviewees who set up near him.

Yesterday, he walked in different. Ordered his usual americano, but with a quiet smile instead of anxious fidgeting. Sat at his regular spot, opened his laptop, and started interviewing someone else. Turns out he'd not only landed a job but had been promoted to building his own team.

He caught me watching and smiled. "You know," he said, "this place became my office when I didn't have one. Thanks for never rushing me out." I just nodded and filled his cup. Some victories are best celebrated quietly.

He still comes in for interviews, but now he's on the other side of the table. I've noticed he has a knack for putting nervous candidates at ease, sharing his own story of all the coffees it took to get there.

The Last Regular

The machines made perfect coffee. That's what everyone said, anyway. But Mr. Chen still came to my counter instead of using the automated stations. He was my only remaining human-served customer, a living artifact from when baristas did more than maintenance.

"They don't remember," he told me one day, tapping the gleaming automated pods that surrounded us. "Three pumps vanilla, extra hot, but not too hot because of my tongue surgery last year. They don't remember that I switched from whole milk to oat milk when my daughter became vegan and I wanted to understand her world better."

I didn't tell him I was being decommissioned next week. Some stories are better left unfinished, like the last sip of coffee going cold in a forgotten cup.

The Time Collector

Maya first saw it in her mother's vanity mirror: 43:12:07:35, hovering like digital dust in the reflection. She was nine, and thought it was a clock malfunction. When her mother died exactly 43 years, 12 days, 7 hours, and 35 minutes later, Maya understood what she'd been seeing all along.

Now she avoids mirrors when she can. But sometimes, catching a glimpse of someone's timestamp in a window or a phone screen, she sees a number she can't ignore. Like today: the young man on the subway, reflected in the dark tunnel window - 00:00:12:30. Twelve and a half hours.

She could walk away. She usually does. But he's reading her favorite book, dog-eared and well-loved, and somehow that makes him harder to ignore. Maybe some numbers aren't deadlines but doorways. Maybe some reflections show us what to change instead of what to accept.

Parallel Lines

The first time Jamie walked into her own life, she was waiting at a crosswalk. One moment she was alone, the next she was standing beside herself - another Jamie, identical but for a small scar above her eyebrow and a confidence in her stance that felt foreign.

"Don't take the job in Seattle," her other self said. "Choose London instead." Then the light changed, and she was alone again.

She chose Seattle anyway. Now she finds herself walking into other people's lives instead - brief moments where realities blur and she sees their other choices playing out. The musician who never quit his band. The artist who never went to law school. Small moments that split lives into before and after.

She's learned to recognize the signs: a slight shimmer in peripheral vision, a sense of déjà vu in reverse. Sometimes she leaves notes for them, subtle suggestions toward paths not taken. Sometimes she just watches, collecting might-have-beens like others collect stamps or stories.

She still hasn't found the Jamie with the eyebrow scar. But sometimes, passing windows in London, she catches a glimpse of someone who could be her, and wonders which of them made the right choice.