Cold Coffee

This was meant as a one-shot or short story and it was inspired by Ed Sheeran's song Cold Coffee, hence the name. The last four lines are a quote from it, so I do not own them. Hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading :3

A Short Story/ One-shot

§ Cold Coffee §

I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to roll down my ashen cheeks. I held the pen firmly in my hands, yet it kept slipping out of my grip, making my untidy scribbles look even messier than usual. I could feel the marks that my written words left on the thin paper underneath my palms, and this gave me courage, because it reminded me that beyond my intelligible script lay a world of my invention, a world where this boring version of me didn't exist.

My parents' shouts and cruel words directed against each other from the room directly underneath mine filled the air and left a hanging sense of tension.

They wouldn't stop. They never did. My grip on the pen was borderline painful now, however I couldn't care less as I continued to write furiously on my notebook. I reread the words I'd just written out loud, only a few decibels above a whisper in an attempt to drown out the shouting that had once more started, now louder than before. I let out a resigned groan as I crossed out the entire paragraph, blatantly dissatisfied with the quality of my writing today.

To use friendlier words than what I was thinking, it was a load of crap.

My gaze fell on the mug that had just witnessed my frustrated outburst. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been downstairs to make coffee. It could have been an hour or even longer for all I knew. I had a very weird perspective on the things around me. I could remember something I had seen years earlier to the last detail if it caught my interest, but I couldn't get myself to remember the pettiest things I did just hours earlier if I didn't particularly care for them.

Hesitantly, I reached for the mug. I contemplated whether I should drink the brownish liquid. It wouldn't kill me, but it could taste horrible after being left out for so long.

Tentatively I brought the cup to my lips and took a sip of the coffee. It was nothing special, just cold coffee. It was neither good, but not too bad, just slightly disappointing. I needed my caffeine fix, but there was no way I was going down in the kitchen to make myself a cup. That would involve meeting my parents in a middle of a fight.

I looked at the clock. 19:35.

Sleep was out of the question. It was a warm summer night and that meant that I would go on a nocturnal schedule. It was partly because I loved going to sleep at the early hours of the morning when no one was awake. The few hours of perfect silence during the night were what kept me from becoming insane. To make it worse, sleep came to me with a lot of difficulty. There was something scary about closing your eyes and being at the mercy of your own subconscious mind.

With a sigh, I put the mug back on the table. I knew that if I wanted coffee, I would have to go to the nearest coffee shop. My addiction was stronger than me and I caved. I found myself changing out of my pyjamas and into a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I put on my converse and grabbed my notebook, pen and keys. I slipped my phone into my pocket and slipped out of my house.

§ | § | §

Sam's coffee shop has always been a popular hotspot for people my age to come and mingle. It was one of the only places which we could easily access as it was just a few minutes away by bus from our school. I was grateful that I lived fairly close to it, as they had the best coffee I've ever tasted.

However, today was a nice Tuesday night and people sought the outside world. It was no surprise that the store was almost deserted, save for a couple of customers and a boy behind the counter who seemed bored out of his mind. I walked towards the counter to order, trying not to look in his eyes. I was bad at keeping eye contact. I felt painfully shy as I said, "Um... one cup of black coffee please."

"Black? Judging from your looks I'd say you're more of a Caramel Latte kind of girl," he said. Was... was he actually trying to start a conversation with me?

I looked up at him, and a pair of soft brown eyes met mine. I could feel myself blush involuntary. I was not used to talking to complete strangers.

"Trust me, I'm a black coffee kind of girl." I answered him. I could feel his eyes studying me so I instantly lowered mine. He made my coffee quickly so I paid him and found a table.

I pulled out my notebook again and let my imagination flow. About twenty minutes later, the sounds of the two other customers leaving interrupted me and I looked up. I could feel a sense of awkwardness settling in as I realised that I was alone in the store with the cute boy.

I started fumbling with my notebook five minutes later, knowing that I could never write anything remotely good if I was in the same room alone with him.

That was when someone slowly slid a glass cup closer to me. I looked up, noticing the boy. I caught my breath, both with surprise and shyness.

"Try it, it's a Hazelnut Iced Latte. Don't worry; it's on the house. Figured you'd prefer this to your coffee. You've barely taken two sips of it and it's probably cold now. I was afraid you didn't like it so I hoped this would make amends. You... you're not allergic to nuts, are you?" he asked me.

I was stunned for a moment at the sudden kindness. I shook my head. "N-no. I'm not allergic to nuts. And thank you, for the coffee, I mean." I mumbled. I sounded flustered even to myself.

"So, you're a writer, huh?" He asked me, pointing towards my notebook. I closed it shut. My writings were strictly personal.

"It's nothing, really." I stuttered.

He smiled at me, "Really then, can I see?" he asked reaching for the notebook. I pulled it away.

"I don't think... I- don't you have something better to do?" I asked, a little annoyed now. He grinned before shaking his head. "Nope, I'm bored as hell." he said, letting the 'p' drop.

"They're nothing, really. Just stories I invent out of my boredom. Love, fantasy, anything that pops in my mind, really." I told him.

"Love stories, huh? Writing from experience I guess," he said, sounding slightly bitter.

"Not really. I write about love but I've never been anywhere close to being in love. Kind of hypocritical to write about something you have no experience about, isn't it?" I said pathetically.

"Not really. Who says you have to experience love to recognize it. Just don't be too disappointed if in real life it doesn't turn out to be this glorious thing you write about. Trust me, I speak from experience." he said, an edge of bitterness clear in his voice. However, the sad look in his eyes vanished as fast as it had appeared as he looked back at me.

"I'm Danny, by the way and you are?"

"I'm... I'm late." I said as I quickly got off my chair. I darted outside, leaving my cold coffee and untouched latte behind. I heard him running after me. He caught up to me in a matter of a few seconds.

"You forgot your notebook," he said.

I knew that my cheeks were already red, but by now they were the colour of beetroot. I heard him say, "See you around, Writer," before heading back inside the unattended coffee shop.

I saw my pen wedged between the front cover and the first page of the notebook so I opened it. Written in a much more elegant script than mine, there was written a message along with a phone number,

To my mystery Writer,

"Tell me if I'm wrong,

Tell me if I'm right,

Tell me if you need a loving hand

To help you fall asleep tonight."

-Danny