Some shitty wlw

Coffee yes ik

Hi so this is bad but? We'll live? I also never have time for anything bc being a good student is ducking hard sis
Warning: none
Words: 478
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I walk into the bright and cheery coffee shop. There she is- my favourite waitress. Her shining, sunny hair and her oceanic blue eyes. Her tiny nose and her full, pink lips. Her smile and her dimples. Not a surprise she would run a place like this- it reminded me of earth, coffee grounds and honey, with plants spilling from shelves above oak tables. The shop was alive with chatter and the whir of a coffee machine. The walls were exposed brick, apart from a "feature wall" of bright yellow. It really calmed me to come here.
I walked up to the counter, surveying the menu.
"Uhh..." I had trouble talking to people, especially her. "I'd like a, a caramel m-macchiato? Please?"
"Coming right up!" She replied, her voice sweet but sickly, comforting in a way.
I sat at a table, gazing at her. She worked tirelessly- she deserves so much more. I sigh and wait for my name to be called.
"Caramel Macchiato for Riley Gooden."
I walked up to collect it, trying to catch her eye. She handed me the steaming cup with a small smile. Perhaps it was a smirk. It smelt so good.
"So, how are you?" She asked. She asked me a question.
"I-I'm good. Works super busy right now," I stammered out, albeit very awkwardly.
"Aren't you a college professor? I thought you only had one class," she laughed.
"I do, I just have an extra thirty students. Which is a lot, on top of everything."
"Oh well, I could give you a break with some coffee." She winked at me. "But, I shouldn't be keeping you from class. Go on- you're lunch is almost over."
"U-uh yeah! Thanks for... reminding me. Bye."
I rushed away, mentally kicking myself. Does she like me? Does she not? What if she doesn't but I ask her out? What if she does but I think she doesn't so I don't ask her out so she doesn't because she thinks I don't like her? Breathe, Riley, breathe.
"You forgot your coffee!" She called after me.
"Thanks," I muttered. I grabbed it from the till, forced a weak smile and walked out the door. The bell rang behind me.
I sat down in a wet bench in the middle of the park. There was so much foliage. Trees taller than The Shard, grass that was covered in morning dew, flowers of all colours lining the borders of the grass, spilling onto the cobblestones. The bench, however, was wet and boring. I opened the lid and lifted it to my lips. It was so creamy, so sweet, so delicious. So cliché. I was about to throw it into a nearby bin until I noticed something on the cup. A number.

A phone number.