The barista said he’d been coming in every Friday at 5 p.m., like clockwork.
Always ordered the same thing:
“Two medium cappuccinos, one with caramel.”
He’d sit by the window. Pull out a small notebook. And wait.
One coffee stayed untouched across the table.
One Friday, I finally asked.
“Are you meeting someone?”
He smiled, eyes tired but kind. “Sort of.”
He looked at the full coffee and said:
“She used to meet me here every Friday after work. Even when we fought.”
He stared out the window while people rushed past with weekend plans, headphones, grocery bags, laughter.
“I haven’t seen her in three years,” he said softly. “But I still come. Just in case.”
“Was she your wife?” I asked.
He nodded. “We separated just before the pandemic. Nothing big. Just… years of not talking about the little stuff until it became too loud.”
He traced the rim of the untouched cup.
“She told me the day she left, ‘If you ever decide to meet me halfway, I’ll be at this table. Every Friday at 5.’”
I asked if he thought she’d come back.
He smiled. “She might not. But every Friday I show up… I become a better version of the man who drove her away.”
I watched as he took the untouched coffee to go, just like always.
Then handed it to a young couple standing outside, laughing.
“Caramel?” the guy asked.
The older man nodded. “On the house.”
And just like that, he disappeared down the sidewalk.
💬 Final Thought:
Some people wait for love to return.
Some people show up…
And leave a seat open just in case the past finds its way back.
