You, Me, The Little Things [BRIGHTWIN]

you, me, the coffee shop

// Bright works at a café that he's come to love so much. Only he doesn't know why, is it because of the creamy richness in the air or the coffee eyes of a certain regular customer?//

-Bright's pov

- an entry for #BWSongAUFest season 3 (it's a beautiful song, listen to it if you haven't already)
.....

I think that possibly
Maybe I'm falling for you
Yes, there's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you
I've seen the paths that your eyes wander down
I want to come too
I think that possibly
Maybe I'm falling for you
No one understands me quite like you do
Through all of the shadowy corners of me
I never knew just what it was about this old coffee shop I love so much
All of the while I never knew
I never knew just what it was about this old coffee shop I love so much
All of the while I never knew

....

Bright glances at his watch for the twelfth time in a minute. It's thirty minutes past the time that boy usually comes. Bright's lower lip tilt downward as he gets lost in his thoughts, Off's voice going over his head.

"Huh?" He asks startled after his coworker pokes him.

"I said it looks like it will rain" Off points out, smiling wider than the normal courtesy between them requires, his hands flailing in exaggeration to grab Bright's attention. However, Bright fathoms it unnecessary as he'd have taken over Off's shift even if he hadn't asked him to. He isn't the best of men out there but God he's good enough to let a man go spend the first monsoon shower with his newly wedded wife. He returns the smile politely, assuring the other he'd be fine by himself.

Will be finer, if that boy happens to stop by later, he thinks to himself.

Bright wipes the last table from the left corner, his eyes boring holes in the purple sheath of the padding in the chair. Although he is not fond of crowds in the café, Bright particularly hates the sight of this chair being empty. Because it belongs to that boy with coffee eyes that are more often than not concealed under his flossy bangs.

Bright thinks he must be an artist. And if he truly is, Bright really wants to know what arts he must practice.

Some days, he wonders if the boy is a musician. Not the one who belongs to a band celebrating a cult but just a musician, a simple home boy who makes up his own songs, giving random tunes to random cluster of words so as to avoid the noise of his mind. Bright did hear him singing once. Eyes closed, head resting on his hands on the table, the boy looked like he had dozed off but it was only when Bright went to his table, slightly nervous to wake him up, did he notice that the boy wasn't asleep to begin with.

He was softly humming the words of what it sounded like a folk song to Bright.

It is Bright's first clear memory of when did he start paying attention to the boy. Ironically, it was the moment when he, for the first time ever, felt what it is like to forget everything momentarily as his mind clogged with too clear consciousness of the boy's existence. It's funny, how people say that details dissolve as the time passes when in reality, mind does remeber what heart tells it to. And it remembers it with the fucking tiniest details.