The Weight of Unspoken Things

He always orders black coffee. No sugar, no cream—like he’s punishing his tastebuds with reality.
I noticed that first. The small, self-inflicted deprivations people cling to, thinking they're in control. Pathetic, really. But efficient. Keeps everyone at arm's length when you radiate this much controlled austerity.
He sits at the same corner table every Tuesday and Thursday. Always reading something dense and probably depressing. I started coming just to watch him.
I’m a creature of habit too, apparently. This whole 'observing sad men' thing has become…routine.
Today he looked up. Just for a second. His eyes met mine.
And it wasn’t the polite dismissal you expect from someone who actively avoids connection. There was something else there—a flicker of shared exhaustion, maybe even recognition.
He quickly averted his gaze and took another sip of his bitter coffee.
I ordered a latte with extra foam. Just to annoy him.

Editor: Sharp Anna