"Took you long enough to say it," Kaye replied. Her voice was a soft velvet, laced with a bashful sweetness that made my heart stutter. "Of course it's a yes, you silly boy!"
The world around us seemed to lose its edges, blurring into a warm, golden haze. A surge of disbelief washed over me, followed immediately by a heat so radiant it felt like I'd swallowed a piece of the sun.
My chest tightened-not with pain, but with a soaring, weightless joy that made the very air feel lighter. I wanted to catch my breath, but my lungs were too busy expanding with the sheer, ridiculous triumph of it.
"Seriously?" I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of a grin that felt wide enough to break my face. For a moment, I wasn't just happy; I was invincible.
"Yep, I said yes! Don't believe me? Fine, maybe I'll take it back then, hmpf!" She let out a playful, airy huff, crossing her arms over her chest in a mock pout that only made her eyes sparkle more.
There was no malice in her voice-only a teasing, melodic lilt that made my heart do a slow, dizzying roll. She stepped closer, the faint scent of jasmine and something impossibly sweet swirling around her like a soft cloud.
As she tilted her head, a stray lock of hair fell across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear with a grace that felt choreographed. Her smile was soft, yet it had the power of a physical tug, pulling me deeper into a world where everything finally made sense.
She looked at me with an intensity that felt like being seen for the very first time, her laughter bubbling up like a gentle spring-warm, inviting, and completely, dangerously addictive.
"No, no! Don't you dare!" I laughed, the sound echoing with a clarity that felt more real than life itself. My chest felt light, as if the gravity of Landsburge had finally let go of my bones.
I reached out, my fingers grazing the warmth of her sleeve, anchored by a joy so sharp it almost hurt.
"I'm just... I've never been this happy." My voice trailed off into a breathy exhale, a soft confession that felt like a prayer answered.
"Good. Now, go change your bio: 12/09/30 💕🔐🔐" She chirped the numbers with a playful, commanding brightness, her eyes dancing with a mischievous glint.
There was a strange, rhythmic precision to the way she spoke the date-as if she were reciting a line from a script I hadn't read yet.
She leaned in closer, her smile widening into something almost dazzlingly bright, her finger poking playfully at my chest as if she were marking her territory in my very soul.
"A what-?" The word tripped over my tongue, my brow furrowing in a sudden, dizzying confusion.
A cold ripple of static seemed to shiver down my spine, the modern "bio" request feeling like a jagged stone thrown into a still, perfect pond.
For a fleeting second, the vibrant colors of the dream seemed to flicker, and the warmth of her touch felt... calculated.
The golden haze didn't fade; it shattered.
The warmth in my chest was replaced by the aggressive thwack of a hand hitting my shoulder and the sterile, flickering hum of office lights.
The smell of Kaye's perfume vanished, replaced by the scent of ozone and Demi's stale ham sandwich.
"Hey, wake up, El! We're done, time to clock out," Demi's voice sliced through my euphoria like a dull saw.
I blinked, the gray cubicle walls closing in on me like a trap. My heart, which had been soaring moments ago, hit the floor with a heavy, hollow thud. I sat there for a second, mourning the girl who didn't exist and the date that would never happen.
"Damn... a dream again," I whispered. The disappointment tasted like copper in the back of my throat.
"Why? Having a nice dream about your lovey-dovey again, huh?" Demi smirked, leaning against my desk with the casual cruelty of someone who hadn't just lost the love of his life to a nap.
"Stop it. You aren't helping," I snapped, my irritation rising as a defense mechanism against the lingering sadness.
I began aggressively aligning my pens, trying to scrub the dream away with productivity. "Just wait for me. I'll clean my table, then we will go to that cafe."
"Okay, okay! I'll wait for you at the exit, bro. Try not to fall in love with any staplers on your way out!" Demi's laughter erupted like a sudden thunderclap, vibrating through the thin office partitions and making the pens I'd just straightened jump. He threw a casual, mocking salute, his face splitting into a grin that was all teeth and genuine, annoying affection.
Hi! my name is El Ignacio I am 28 years old and single living at Landsburge where a lot of businessmen were born. I'm currently working at the Tate Association as a Marketing Assistant.
My life is just simple, plain as soup porridge without egg and beef. It is just filled with seasonings to have a taste. Just showing up to my work like everyone else. I'm just- "Elll! What are you doing? Hurry up, you know company won't pay us if we stay longer than work hours, right?!"
Demi's sudden voice didn't just interrupt; it detonated, ripping through the quiet hum of the office like a fire alarm in a library. El felt his heart give a sharp, startled kick against his ribs, his train of thought derailing instantly.
"Tsk, I'm making an intro here, Demi."
El muttered under his breath, his voice laced with the dry irritation of a man whose sanctuary had just been breached. He didn't look up, his hand moving in a practiced, rhythmic sweep across the mahogany surface.
"Huh? What the fuck are you saying?"
Demi's response was a loud, jagged spike of confusion that seemed to bounce off the office glass. He was leaning against the cubicle wall now, his presence heavy and restless, like a storm cloud waiting for a reason to rain.
"It's nothing, I said I'm done, coming!"
El yelled back, the forced volume making his throat feel tight and raw.
He gave his desk one last, lingering look-ensuring every paper was at a perfect ninety-degree angle-before he snatched his bag and hurried toward the exit where Demi stood tapping his foot.
"What took you so long, El? Your table is so clean that you don't have to clean it time after time,"
Demi remarked as they stepped into the hallway. He shook his head, his voice dripping with a mix of genuine bafflement and the impatient energy of someone who couldn't stand a moment of stillness.
"You've known me for six years and you still ask me that question? Tsk."
El clicked his tongue, a sharp, brittle sound that echoed his growing disappointment. He felt a weary tug in his chest, wondering if his best friend would ever see the comfort he found in a world that stayed exactly where he put it.
"Yeah, I've known you for six years and I still don't know the reason why you keep cleaning a spotless table,"
Demi countered, his eyes rolling with a playful, theatrical flair that showed he was already moving on to the next thought.
"It's just-"
El started, his voice softening, a rare moment of vulnerability beginning to surface as he tried to explain the peace of his "soup porridge" life.
But the sentence died in his throat as Demi's hand collided with his back in a heavy, bone-jarring thwack.
"Whatever! I don't care about the reason, just hurry up!"
Demi laughed, the sound booming through the corridor with a boisterous, unapologetic force that completely shattered the mood.
"I really, really want to drink coffee!" He grinned, his eyes wide with a manic, caffeine-starved light that made it clear he was already miles ahead of El's quiet reflections.
Before I continue, let me formally introduce the human megaphone currently nagging me: Demi De Cruz.
We've been best friends for six years, though "survivor and captor" might be more accurate. We're both Marketing Assistants here at Tate Association, but our working styles are... different. I focus on precision; Demi focuses on where the free snacks are.
Our friendship didn't start with a handshake or a professional greeting. On our first day, I was sitting at my desk-perfectly aligned, of course-when Demi tripped over a stray power cord and face-planted directly onto my lap.
Instead of saying "sorry" or "excuse me," he looked up at me, blinked, and asked:
"Are you going to eat those crackers, or are we best friends now?"
I didn't even answer, but he took my silence as a blood covenant. He's been following me around, messing up my spotless desk, and demanding caffeine ever since.
As we stepped out of the Tate Association building, the late afternoon sun hit my face, reminding me that the world was still turning, even if my dream life was infinitely more successful than my actual one. We began our ritualistic march toward the only caffeine we could afford.
"So,"
Demi started, swinging his arms like a toddler who'd had too much sugar-or in his case, not enough.
"Since you were having such a spicy dream, are you treating me to a premium latte today? I feel like my presence as your alarm clock deserves a tip."
I adjusted my bag, my fingers itching to straighten the strap of his backpack which was hanging precariously off one shoulder.
"I live in Landsburge, Demi. The land where businessmen are born and bank accounts go to die. Between my rent and my collection of desk organizers, my budget has the structural integrity of a wet napkin."
"Excuses, excuses,"he scoffed, nearly walking into a street lamp because he was too busy checking his reflection in a shop window.
"You're just stingy. You probably have a secret vault filled with perfectly labeled gold bars."
"If I had gold bars, do you think I'd still be wearing a tie that I bought from a vending machine?" I retorted.
"Fair point." Demi stopped abruptly, clutching his stomach as if he'd been shot.
"Oh, the humanity! El, look! My blood sugar is dropping! If I don't get a Chai-flavored chemical solution in the next three minutes, I might actually have to start doing my own spreadsheets tomorrow!"
The sheer drama of his performance-complete with a faint-like stagger-attracted the judgmental stares of three real businessmen in tailored suits. I walked faster, pretending I was just a concerned stranger passing by.
"Fine! But we're going to Whimsy," I hissed, grabbing his sleeve to drag him along.
"Whimsy?" Demi straightened up instantly, his 'near-death' experience forgotten. "The place where the napkins are made of recycled sandpaper? My favorite!"
We turned the corner, the familiar, slightly depressing neon sign of the shop flickering like a dying heartbeat. It was time to trade our dignity for a P356.22 cup of liquid disappointment.
After a few minutes of walking we arrived at Whimsy Coffee Shop-the gold standard for people who have given up on their dreams but still need to be awake. Whimsy isn't a "third place"; it's a transit lounge for the soul. Nobody "lingers" here. You sit for exactly 22 minutes-long enough for the caffeine to hit your bloodstream but not long enough for the plastic chairs to fuse to your skin-and then you vanish.
There is no community here. No one knows the barista's name, and the barista prefers it that way; if they don't know your name, they don't have to feel guilty about what they're serving you. It's the kind of place that feels transient, like the building is just resting here for a few months before it inevitably transforms into a laundromat or a shady check-cashing store.
I ordered the House Drip (P356.22), the skeletal remains of Whimsy's reputation. It has sat on the burner for precisely 45 minutes-never fresh, yet somehow immune to aging. It's the "vampire" of coffees. I added three creamers to mask the bitterness, which tasted less like roasted beans and more like a burnt car tire that had been handled with care.
Demi, on the other hand, ordered the Chai Latte (P425.00).
Calling it "Chai" is a legal stretch. It's a beige powder that tastes like cinnamon-flavored regret and dusty attic dreams. Because Demi likes to pretend we aren't at a shop that uses powdered milk, he looked the barista dead in the eye and asked for oat milk.
The barista didn't even look up. He just pointed a trembling finger at a stack of non-dairy creamer packets that looked like they were manufactured in the late 90s.
"We have water," the barista muttered.
Demi sighed, took his cup of spicy dust, and sat down. "One day, El," he whispered, staring into the foam. "One day, we'll work at a marketing firm that pays us in actual cow secretions."
"But why do you always ask for oat milk even though you know they don't have it?"
I asked, leaning back as the plastic chair groaned under my weight. I was genuinely curious about this specific brand of insanity he performed daily.
"Well, you know... it's just for extra words. To make the interaction feel longer," Demi replied with a shrug, taking a cautious sip of his Chai-flavored cinnamon regret.
"Make it long for what?" I pressed, my eyebrows knitting together. Was he trying to find love at the counter of a failing coffee shop?
"Nothing, just don't mind me," he mumbled, his eyes darting away as if he'd said too much. He suddenly pivoted, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"By the way, El, have you heard the news about our old classmate, Syka?"
"What about her?" I replied, my thumb rhythmically scrolling through my phone to avoid making eye contact with a suspicious-looking stain on our table.
"She made it. She's officially in the Top 10 Associates of Lesive Association."
My thumb froze on the screen. "Lesive? The giants? The only ones who can actually make Tate Association look like a lemonade stand?"
"The very same," Demi nodded, his expression a mix of genuine awe and mild existential dread. "I didn't expect her to actually breach the walls of our rival company, let alone lead the pack."
"Good for her," I said, though the words felt heavy, like lead.
I let out a long, weary sigh and shrugged my shoulders, trying to shake off the sudden weight of my own mediocrity.
"She always said she'd be a Lesive Associate. And she did it."
I looked down at my House Drip, whispering into the steam so Demi wouldn't hear,
"What about me? I've been working nonstop for years and I'm still just a Marketing Assistant... a professional paper-pusher." I took a gulp of the coffee; it was lukewarm and tasted exactly like my life-bitter, cheap, and slightly burnt at the edges.
"What are you muttering about? Stop being miserable like it's your final moment on Earth-" Demi's attempt at "tough love" was violently interrupted.
A group of loud customers burst through the door, laughing with a volume that suggested they had never heard of the concept of 'indoor voices.' They sat at the table next to us, their knock-off designer bags hitting the floor with a thud that sounded suspiciously like cheap plastic. They were clearly trying to look like Lesive Association executives, but their presence in Whimsy proved they were strictly on a 'budget-water' salary.
But the one who caught my attention wasn't trying to be noticed at all. While her companions clattered and clanked, she moved like water.
She was the eye of their garish storm. The blazer they all wore was, on her, not a costume. On her, the severe cut of the navy fabric looked like a statement of intent, a silent announcement of authority.
One of them leaned over to her friend, her voice piercing through the shop's quiet misery:
"You drink coffee like it's a personality trait!" she shrieked with a laugh.
"Excuse me!" her friend fired back, clutching a venti-sized cup like a holy relic. "I'll have you know I'm a complex blend of anxiety and caffeine!"
Demi and I shared a look. The irony was physically painful.
"How many cups have you had today?" the first one asked, sounding horrified.
"I lost count after I started seeing sounds and hearing colors," the caffeine-addict replied, her eyes wide and slightly twitchy.
"Maybe switch to decaf?"
"Decaf is just hot bean juice with false promises. I don't trust it!" she declared, slamming her cup down. "One day my heart is going to quit on me, but worth it! At least my funeral will smell like espresso!"
Demi turned back to me, his eyes deadpan as he gestured toward the loud table with his plastic spoon.
"See, El?"
Demi whispered, his voice dripping with dry humor.
"And you think your life is bitter? At least we aren't at the 'seeing sounds' stage of the Marketing Assistant career path. That's usually reserved for Senior Management."
I couldn't help it; a small, reluctant smile cracked through my gloom.
"True. If my heart quits, it'll probably just smell like this P356.22 House Drip. Nobody wants to attend a funeral that smells like a burnt tire."
"Exactly," Demi grinned, holding up his powdered Chai. "To be stuck in the middle! It's safer for the heart rate."
The laughter at the neighboring table died down just enough for the scraping of my chair to sound like a tectonic shift. I tried to look invisible-a skill I had perfected in corporate meetings-but Demi was still holding his chai aloft like a trophy.
For a long moment, the girl I couldn't stop staring at-the one whose beauty had snagged my attention and held it hostage-froze mid-sip. Her gaze drifted over to our table, sharp and unnervingly precise, as if she was cutting through the dim light of Whimsy just to land on me.
"Oh look," she said, her voice dropping into a playful but intimidating lilt.
"We have an audience. Do you think they're fans of the 'Seeing Sounds' tour, or just critics?"
Her four friends turned in unison, five pairs of eyes pinning us to our thrifted velvet chairs.
"I think they're analysts," the girl with the expensive leather tote chimed in, leaning forward with a smirk that screamed Ivy League audacity. "Look at the posture. Definitely judging our caffeine-to-sanity ratio."
Demi's reaction: (A mix of caught-red-handed panic smoothed over by his natural charm; his shoulders relaxed, but his grip on the plastic spoon tightened.)
"Guilty as charged," Demi said, flashing a grin that usually worked on grumpy baristas.
"Though, to be fair, your manifesto on decaf being 'false promises' is the most honest thing I've heard all fiscal year."
El's reaction: (A cold spike of social anxiety melting into a weird sense of camaraderie; I felt my face heat up, but I didn't look away.)
"We weren't judging," I added, my voice steadier than I expected. "We were mostly just admiring the commitment to the bit. It's hard to find that kind of passion in a Marketing department."
The girls didn't look offended. Instead, they seemed to find our presence an amusing diversion from their own chaos. Their leader-the one I'd been staring at-caught me looking. She adjusted her glasses and gave us both a slow once-over, her gaze clinical and assessing, like I was a specimen pinned beneath her lens.
"Marketing, you say?" she asked, her tone shifting into something mock-formal.
"Well then, as representatives of the 'Over-Caffeinated and Under-Appreciated' demographic, we demand a professional evaluation. Is my friend's heart palpitations a brand liability or a niche aesthetic?"
The Caffeine Addict's reaction: (Feigned offense mixed with manic energy; she clutched her cup to her chest as if protecting a child.)
"It's an aesthetic!" she insisted. "Vibrant. Jumpy. Highly caffeinated chic!"
Demi's reaction: (Full-on theatrical consultant mode; he leaned in, narrowing his eyes as if examining a high-stakes pitch deck.)
"From a branding perspective?" Demi mused, tapping his chin.
"I'd say it's 'Urgent Minimalism.' You've stripped away the unnecessary fluff of sleep to focus on the core product: pure, unadulterated jitters."
El's reaction: (Genuine amusement bubbling up; for the first time today, the weight of the 'paper-pusher' title felt lighter.)
"I'd argue it's a liability," I countered, pointing to her twitching left eye.
"If the brand's face starts vibrating during a client pitch, you might accidentally summon a demon. Or worse, a HR representative."
The table of five erupted in a chorus of surprisingly elegant laughter. The girl in the blazer pulled out a business card that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe and slid it across the wood toward us.
"You two are far too witty to be drinking burnt House Drip in silence," she said, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp intelligence.
"I'm Aletheia. We're celebrating-or mourning, depending on the hour-the launch of a new firm. We could use people who know how to find the humor in a 'burnt tire' funeral."
Demi's reaction: (Pure, unbridled opportunism masked by a cool exterior; he picked up the card with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.)
"Demi. And this is El, the best Marketing Assistant currently wasting her life in a cubicle," he said, winking at me.
El's reaction: (A jolt of electricity hitting my spine; part hope, part utter disbelief that a random coffee shop encounter was turning into a networking event.)
"I'm El," I confirmed, looking at the card. The logo was minimalist, gold-leafed, and whispered of a world I only saw through glass windows. "And I usually smell less like burnt tires. I promise."
"We'll see," Aletheia laughed. Her name felt heavy, an old-world word for truth that she wore like a shield. She stood up as her friends gathered their bags:
Vesper, who trailed a scent of expensive clove cigarettes, was someone Caelum had earlier bickered with about her coffee addiction.
Lyra, whose eyes remained fixed on her tablet like she was decoding the stock market;
and Sloane, who gave me a look so sharp it could have sliced my P356.22 House Drip in half.
At the corner table, Caelum, the local caffeine-junkie-in-residence, let out a low, jagged whistle. She looked like she hadn't slept since the last solar eclipse, her fingers twitching rhythmically against a double-shot espresso cup.
"Don't let the coffee kill you before Monday," Aletheia added, her three shadows already moving toward the door.
"There's a world outside of paper-pushing, El. Sometimes you just have to scream loudly enough to be heard over the espresso machine."
As the bells chimed over the door, signaling their departure, the shop felt suddenly, hollowly quiet-save for the frantic tink-tink-tink of Caelum's spoon hitting her saucer. Demi was staring at the card like it was a golden ticket.
"Whoa," Demi breathed, a mischievous glint breaking through his initial shock. He nudged my shoulder hard.
"Look at you, El. Smelling like a literal tire fire and you still manage to bag a girl who looks like she owns half of Landsburge. Is this a 'meet-cute' or did you accidentally cast a spell?"
"Shut up, Demi," I muttered, though my heart was already thrumming against my ribs.
"I'm serious! Aletheia? That's a 'main character' name," he teased, leaning in close.
"She's got the blazer, the mysterious entourage, and she gave you the card. Even Caelum over there stopped vibrating for two seconds to look at her. I bet she's got a yacht. Can I come on the yacht, El? Please tell me I'm invited to the wedding."
"There is no wedding. I don't even know her," I replied, reaching out to snatch the card.
"Well, check the back," Demi grinned, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Maybe it's her number. Or a room key. Go on, Loverboy, see what your future holds."
I flipped the card over. My playful retort died in my throat. The atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a suffocating chill.
On the back, written in a hurried, elegant hand, were five words that made my breath hitch:
Stop looking for the exit.
Below the words was a tiny, hand-drawn symbol-a bird with its wings pinned back. It was the same doodle I'd scratched into the dirt of my childhood playground twenty years ago. The same one I'd burned into the back of my closet when I was ten. A symbol I had never shown a living soul.
I looked at Demi, his face still twisted in a teasing grin, and suddenly he looked like a stranger. Everyone in the room looked like a stranger.
"El?" Demi asked, his brow furrowing as my face went ash-white. "You okay, man? You look like you just saw your own ghost."
"I think," I whispered, my fingers trembling so hard the card fluttered to the floor, "I think I just did."