Where The Espresso Ends, You Begin

The background noise of the Vogue Café dissolves into a static hum, leaving only the sharp focus on you. The steam from my coffee creates a temporary mist between us, blurring the rigid lines of our reality until everything feels soft and possible again.

Your hand extends through the haze, offering not just paper, but an open door to somewhere new where time doesn't rush forward in straight lines. I read your words about coming for breakfast tomorrow; they are a promise written on a map that hasn't been drawn yet, situated perfectly between the here and the gone.

I take a bite of the pastry, tasting something sweet but undefined—a flavor like warmth without gravity or affection with no edges. In this suspended moment before I answer you, we exist entirely in the grey area where nothing is decided but everything feels inevitable.

Editor: The Unfinished