The bell over the door chimed, overly cheerful, like a forced smile echoing through the quiet space. “Welcome to Boba on Main!” chirped the young woman behind the counter, her hand waving enthusiastically as if I’d just stumbled into a surprise birthday party instead of a boba café on a weekday afternoon. She had the kind of energy you only find in people who genuinely love their jobs—or who haven’t been here long enough for reality to set in.
I gave her a nod and wandered up to the counter, eyeing the handwritten chalkboard menu hanging overhead. “Brown sugar milk tea,” I said, keeping it simple. She beamed like I’d just made her day, her fingers flying over the register as she punched in my order.
With my tea in the works, I let my gaze drift around the place. The café was deceptively big inside, opening up into a cozy, colorful maze that stretched far beyond what its modest storefront suggested. Up front, the boba counter gleamed with polished wood and stainless steel, the kind of setup meant to look “artisan.” But further back, the space transformed into a mini market, shelves brimming with local crafts and curiosities.
A warm, earthy sweetness lingered in the air from taro cookies baking in a tiny oven behind the counter. The scent curled up with the floral hints of jasmine and white tea from a display of candles nearby, creating a strange but oddly comforting blend that reminded me of a spa, if spas catered exclusively to over-caffeinated hipsters.
The walls practically pulsed with color. Shelves brimmed with hand-painted pottery—bold reds, deep blues, and earthy greens—each piece shouting for attention like a jealous sibling. Nearby, baskets overflowed with sage bundles, and small woven blankets were arranged in cozy piles, all in earthy tones—burnt orange, olive green, rustic browns. It was like someone had packaged autumn in a boutique and put it on a shelf.
A wall of greeting cards caught my eye. Each card bore its own groan-worthy pun in loopy script or chunky lettering. One displayed a grinning volcano with “I lava you” splashed across it, while another proudly declared, “You’re the avocado to my toast.” I raised an eyebrow, silently questioning who was actually paying for this level of cringe. People spent money on puns this bad?
My tea wasn’t ready yet, so I wandered further, stopping in front of a rack of t-shirts nestled between shelves of pottery mugs and beaded jewelry. One shirt stood out, demanding my attention: a cartoon Russell Terrier sitting up with wide, pitiful eyes, a thought bubble hovering over its head reading, “Feed Me, Bitch!” There was something hilarious about the contrast—the dog’s pleading look and the bold, unfiltered text. It was ridiculous, and it was perfect.
Yeah, this is happening, I muttered, pulling a size large off the rack and draping it over my arm, my smirk lingering just a bit longer than usual.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a few side-glances from the other customers. My public restroom rinse-off had gotten me to “acceptable,” but “fresh” was still a reach. I probably smelled like a laundry list of questionable decisions, but hey, I’d dealt with worse.
Finally, my tea arrived, and I grabbed it along with the shirt, paying the cashier—who still looked as delighted as when I’d walked in. With a nod of thanks, I stepped back outside, the afternoon light hitting me as I scanned the street for a secluded spot.
Around the corner, I found an alley that would do the trick. Setting my tea down on a nearby crate, I slipped out of my old shirt and tugged on the new one, adjusting the collar as I settled into the soft fabric. The Russell Terrier’s hopeless expression added a touch of absurdity to the moment, and I found myself almost appreciating it.
With my tea in one hand and the bag in the other, I turned toward Alan’s building, ready to see if he was still as easy to read as a scientific journal written in three languages.
----------------------------------------
A few hours had slipped by since I’d first settled outside Alan’s building. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows that stretched across the sidewalk, turning the world around me into muted shades of orange and blue. I leaned back on the bench, watching as the last of the sunlight crept up the tall, glassy walls, spilling a warm glow across what I’d come to think of as Alan’s domain. Only a few years since he’d left Fenwick’s Crossing, and here he was, in one of the high-rises where people who’ve “made it” wind up.
I tilted my head, studying the upper floors. From where I sat, it was obvious that his apartment wasn’t just any unit—it was one of the top-tier ones, where they usually kept the luxury setups. Floor-to-ceiling windows, probably, maybe a minimalist couch he’d never sit on, or a marble counter where he’d place his coffee without really noticing it. The last time we’d talked, Alan was all research grants, lab deadlines, and the kind of drive that didn’t allow for furniture upgrades or, well, anything remotely domestic. And yet, here he was, surrounded by pristine walls that practically screamed “success.” I wondered if he even noticed, or if he saw it as another predictable variable in the path he’d chosen.
A thought slipped in, unexpected and bitter: would he even recognize me after all this time? Part of me considered leaving, just getting up and walking away before he had the chance to look down his nose or make some biting comment. What was I expecting, anyway?
Just as I started to entertain the idea, I saw him. Alan, striding down the street, shoulders set in that familiar, stubborn line, eyes down, probably deep in calculations only he understood. His sandy blond hair was tousled in that usual “I’ve been running my hands through it all day” way. Same intensity, same straight-backed posture, like he was braced for confrontation with the world itself. He moved like he was on rails, oblivious to everything around him, including me.
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
I waited, letting him get close enough to nearly pass me by. He was steps from the entrance when I finally spoke, voice steady but loud enough to cut through his haze. “Alan!”
He froze mid-stride. There was a brief moment where he didn’t move, then his head jerked up, scanning the sidewalk. His eyes squinted slightly as he zeroed in on me, disbelief etched across his face. For a second, he looked as if he couldn’t quite place me—a half-forgotten memory slipping out of some old drawer.
“Dave?” His voice carried that mix of bewilderment and suspicion, a single syllable stretched thin as if he was still processing that it was me sitting there. He stepped closer, his expression flickering between surprise and the faintest hint of irritation. “What are you…doing here?”
I shrugged, keeping my tone light, though I could feel the weight of the years hanging between us. “Figured I’d stop by. Catch up, see how things are going. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
His gaze narrowed, sweeping over me with that calculating look of his, like he was mentally dissecting every detail from my scruffy jeans to the Russell Terrier on my t-shirt. His lips twitched—almost a reaction, but he caught himself, the faintest hint of humor gone as fast as it had appeared.
“For a second there,” he said slowly, voice tinged with that blunt edge he wore like armor, “I thought you were…I almost didn’t recognize you. I thought you might’ve been…a homeless guy.” He said it flatly, without malice, the words delivered as if they were pure fact. Some things never changed.
“Nice to see you too,” I replied dryly, ignoring the jab. I nodded toward the building. “Upper levels, huh? Seems like you’re doing well for yourself.”
Alan’s jaw tightened, his face slipping back into that carefully controlled blankness he favored. “And you…came all this way just to check in?”
I held up the small paper bag Edith had given me that morning, giving it a little shake for emphasis. “Thought I’d drop these off,” I said, as casually as if I’d made the trip a hundred times before. “Edith figured you might want some. I seem to remember you had a thing for muffins.”
Alan raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with that look of incredulity he’d perfected over the years. His eyes, sharp and scrutinizing, swept over me as if I were some stray dog he’d found rooting through the trash. “You came all the way up to The Heights…just to bring me muffins?” Disbelief and disdain weighed on every syllable.
I shrugged, holding his gaze. “Not just any muffins,” I said. “Edith’s muffins.”
For a moment, his face was a mask of indifference, as if he could just turn on his heel and leave me standing there. But at the mention of Edith’s baking, a faint crack appeared in his composure. He shifted slightly, a glimmer of something almost like temptation flickering in his eyes. It was enough to make him step forward, hand outstretched, as though he couldn’t help himself.
But then he stopped short, his expression twisting as he caught a whiff of me. His nose wrinkled, and he took an instinctive step back, looking at me like I’d personally offended every one of his senses.
“God, you smell like shit,” he said flatly, his tone laced with raw disgust. “Seriously, did you quit the soap business or something?”
I couldn’t help but smirk, shrugging off his jab. “Maybe you’ve been up here so long you’ve forgotten what real people smell like.” I gave the bag a little shake, a silent dare for him to take it.
His gaze shifted to the bag for a beat, then back to me, his mouth set in a hard line. The irritation in his pale blue eyes deepened, and he waved the bag away with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Keep them,” he said coldly. “I’d probably get food poisoning after whatever…adventures you clearly had on the way here.”
I felt a brief flicker of irritation myself but tamped it down, keeping my expression neutral. Alan had always had a knack for stripping any gesture of its warmth, and today was no exception.
“You really think I came all this way just to ruin muffins?” I asked, letting the sarcasm seep in, the bag still dangling between us like a peace offering neither of us wanted to take. “They’re for you, you know. Edith figured you could use a reminder that people still care enough to send food your way.”
Alan’s face tightened, his jaw clenched, a barely concealed storm brewing behind his expression. “Go home, Dave,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “Whatever nostalgia trip this is…it’s pointless. You shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
Then, without another word, he turned sharply on his heel, his back rigid, as if dismissing me entirely would erase the last few minutes. The click of his shoes against the pavement sounded like punctuation marks, as if each step was a deliberate declaration that he was done with this conversation. He headed toward the building’s entrance without a single glance back, leaving the air between us thick with words unspoken, tensions unresolved.
I watched Alan’s back as he strode toward the entrance, his dismissal clear with every step. A mix of irritation and something uncomfortably close to desperation bubbled up in me. He wasn’t even going to give me the time of day.
“Alan,” I called out, my voice sharper than I’d intended. He didn’t stop.
Frustration spiked, and before I knew it, the words were out. “I came because I need your help,” I said, louder, the admission raw and almost too honest. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
That stopped him. Alan’s shoulders stiffened, and slowly, he turned around, a hint of exasperation darkening his expression as he looked at me, as though he were already preparing to shut me down, once and for all.
But before he could say a word, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the vial, holding it up between us like an unspoken question, a silent dare.
The fluorescent orange liquid inside glinted faintly in the fading light. Alan’s gaze sharpened, irritation giving way to something else—something…interested.
The silence stretched between us, charged and tense, the weight of unspoken questions hanging in the air. Alan’s mouth opened as if to say something, but for once, words didn’t come.
For the first time, I knew he wasn’t going to just walk away.