"No, you're not, so I'll grab you something anyway." She headed toward the counter, leaving me alone with my thoughts and her half-empty green drink.
I stared out the window at Memorial Avenue, watching cars navigate the intersection. A woman in a red coat waited for the light to change, holding a to-go cup in both hands like it was a lifeline.
Then, I spotted it—a small wicker basket on a shelf along the wall, full of pens and markers. It was a set of communal art supplies that existed in places where people trusted each other not to steal the good pens.
I walked over and reached for a black ballpoint. Returning to my table, I unfolded the napkin. The paper was thin, the kind that would tear if you pressed too hard, but it was there, and I needed to get something out of my head before it poisoned the rest of my day.
I started writing. Not the polished bars from "Puck Life," or the kind of verse designed to go viral and make people laugh. It was a stream of words pouring out of me like water from a broken pipe:
Kitchen collisions, milk on the floor
I'm the hurricane you didn't ask for
Broke your bowl, broke the quiet
Now I'm walking through the riot
In my head, where the noise lives
And I can't find the exit
I paused, pen hovering over the napkin. The words were raw on the thin paper, unfinished and honest. I bit my lip and continued.
Miss the way you move like music
Even when you're just making tea
Alphabetized your cinnamon
Never alphabetized me
The last line hit me in my gut. I folded the napkin quickly, before I could second-guess the words or try to make them better. I didn't write them to be good. I wrote them to be true.
I stuffed the napkin into my hoodie pocket, next to my phone and a growing collection of random shit.
"Cinnamon chip muffin." Juno's voice made me jump. She set a plate in front of me, the muffin still warm, scent reminding me of my angry roommate. "Couldn't resist. Seemed thematically appropriate."
I looked down at the muffin—golden brown with visible chunks of cinnamon throughout, the kind of baked good that someone had made with care instead of pulling from a plastic wrapper.
"Thanks."
"You write something?" She nodded toward the pen I was still holding.
"Maybe. Probably garbage."
"The best stuff usually starts as garbage." She wrapped her hands around her fresh coffee. "You heading back?"
I broke off a piece of the muffin and tasted cinnamon and sugar. "Yeah. Probably should face the music."
"Remember what I said. Your language, not the TV version."
I stood, pocketing the pen without thinking about it. "What if he doesn't speak my language?"
Juno smiled. "Teach him. One word at a time."
The apartment was quiet when I returned. It wasn't the usual comfortable quiet of Sunday mornings or the focused quiet of Evan updating spreadsheets. It was a hollow silence that colonized spaces where people had said things they couldn't take back.
I stood in the entryway momentarily, listening—no shower running or soft click of laptop keys. I didn't hear Evan moving through the kitchen with his methodical precision. Either he was hiding in his room, or he'd left entirely.
