A young man with skin as pale as snow leaned against the wooden counter, his arms crossed and back slightly hunched.
His black, medium-length hair, falling over his eyes in textured strands, obscured his vision, but he seemed somehow indifferent to it.
Casually surveying his surroundings through the hazy blur of hay-vision.
He took a deep breath, such that filled both his lungs and stomach, holding it in for ten seconds, before exhaling slowly, releasing the fatigue and stress of the day.
It wasn't a sigh, just a breath that carried the drain of every hour spent working.
Like any tired, overworked person, he likely longed for rest, but that was not the role he had chosen to play here.
His eyelids finally opened, revealing piercing light blue eyes that radiated warmth—though there was that dead-tired feel accompanied by dark rings. Quite similar to how an old man, clearly past his days, would look whilst laying bedridden on an hospital bed.
"Poor guy," a woman's voice broke through the quiet hum of the café.
She was speaking softly, her words directed at the tired worker behind the counter. "I can't even begin to imagine what his life's like."
Clink, clank, clunk. The sharp sound of a metal spoon striking a ceramic coffee cup echoed as her companion stirred her drink.
"Yeah," the friend replied, almost instinctively, "but don't bring it up. He… gets emotional."
"Really? Well, he's cute…" the first woman murmured, her voice light, flirtatious.
The other woman burst into laughter not bothered by the new set of eyes that followed, her tone mocking, hands fluttering as she laughed. "Hah! But do you know how old he is?"
"At least 22," the first woman answered, eyes scanning Victor with interest.
The second woman laughed again clearly amused, though there was an edge of surprise to it. "No, Cayla. He's 17. Underage. Illegal. Jail"
Cayla paused, struck by the revelation. Nevertheless, it made sense why she initially perceived him as a 22 year old, in a way, given the weariness that seemed to consume him.
The exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, a life uncomfortably lived, perhaps even unhealthy.
He looked older than he was, certainly, but what struck her most was actually his demeanor. Uncharacteristic for most 17 year old green apples.
Having thought of him just now, her eyes drifted towards him, as they often did whenever she visited the coffee shop these past few days with her new friend from college—who was currently blabbing about something Cayla wasn't paying attention to.
Instead, she was battling another fight, one that was happening in her thoughts, evidently spilling to betray her face in a mode of two different micro expressions at that.
'Seventeen…'
For a passing moment, their gazes met across the room.
'Ahh don't look at me..' was her thought.
But she quickly shifted her head to face her friend, though her eyes still flickered toward Victor, the source of her distraction.
"Hello? Earth is calling Home. Or are you lost somewhere in another world?" her friend waved her hand in front of her face, catching her attention.
"…Uh, yes, sorry. What were you talking about?" Cayla mindlessly said as she tried to regain her focus.
"Really Cay… You weren't listening at all, were you? I've been talking for minutes about something serious that happened like RIGHT NOW" her friend remarked with a sigh.
"I was texting with someone about tomorrow's lecture and they said What lecture? So I asked others and then asked some more, they don't remember Professor Liam. Like, at all…"
"You know him, rightt? He always shows up exactly 14 minutes late to his lectures, all groggy, like his wife woke him up instead of his alarm,"
"and and, he brews that god awful Turkish coffee while lecturing,"
"I also texted you yesterday that we wouldn't be going because of Professor Liam and that strong smell of coffee that made me gag and cancel our own coffee plans."
What followed was silence.
And then…
"But when I check it now, there's no message at all, like I never sent it."
Cayla frowned. Then, with utmost certainty replied, "No… I don't think I remember him."
Her friend blinked, shocked. "How could you not? We were literally there yesterday! You really don't remember?"
At this, they both thought the same thing—something was off.
The friend had been talking about their professor, and yet Cayla had no recollection of the encounter. It was as though a piece of their shared reality had slipped away unnoticed.
Moreover, both of them believed the other was bat-shit crazy.
"Don't look at me like I'm crazy. I know for fact that-" her friend stopped mid-sentence and her mouth dropped open.
"…"
"What were we talking about anyway? " she finally asked.
Cayla took a sip of coffee, the edge of the cup smearing in a light pink hue.
"I don't know. I guess about Victor." At the end she raised her voice slightly, as to emphasize the last word.
As if summoned, Victor appeared near their table, looking down.
In response to that, Cayla, in particular, had a reaction that anyone could deduce had happened within seconds.
She blushed and quickly shook her head down as it was more comfortable having a contest stare with the counter than with him.
He wore a simple black t-shirt and black pants, the faded leather belt worn from use.
It was the kind of uniform that blended seamlessly into the dim, warm light of the café with curtains down.
His arm raised, reaching for the pocket of his black apron, which, in the low lighting, seemed almost invisible against his dark attire.
"Hi, uh, what did you need? The receipt?" Victor asked in his usual semi-professional manner, his voice betraying the weariness he tried to hide.
After handing over the receipt and taking over the payment, Victor asked if they were staying or about to leave.
Having received an answer, the former, he nodded and with a slight press of his foot, performed a 180 turn slowly walking away.
Until…
He remembered why he had approached them in the first place.
Bits and pieces of information had traveled to his ears:
about someone named Jackson—or so he heard,
a college friend of theirs —by his assumption,
going missing—bingo, at least he was right about one.
Normally he wasn't the prying type, nor the kind of person who liked to stir up drama and rumors.
Not that he was uninterested, but because, frankly, he had enough of his own drama, talk and hardships to fill a bucket with enough to serve every customer in the café.
But now, he did care.
'It's an interesting topic.' He thought as he turned back to face the two women, capturing their puzzled attention.
"Atlanta, and, uhm, her friend… sorry, I still don't know your name since you only started coming to this café…"
Victor paused, recollecting, "… three days ago, and two days ago, skipping yesterday, right?"
With that final word he smiled.
She flushed, cheeks red, even her ears—despite being hidden partially by her orange bob—flushed.
That small detail was what made her like him even more than mere moments ago.
After all, one of the basic human needs/wants, is to be seen.
What followed was an awkward pause, broken only by the ambient sounds of chatter, soft music, and the hot steam from the coffee machine.
Before long, all four eyes were on Cayla.
"Sorry, sorry. Yes, you're right. I skipped yesterday."
"I, uh, get a little lost sometimes. Distracted even. That's why I wasn't answering for so long."
She extended her petite hand, unbelievably making the first move to offer a handshake, "Cayla Rise. Nice to meet you, officially."
A soft chuckle escaped from Victor, the earlier tiredness seemingly vanishing into thin air.
Maybe we have a second secret admirer?
"Victor. Just Victor."
It was odd.
He didn't offer using his surname or explaining why so.
Cayla, however, didn't notice the omission. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts whether or not her hands were sweaty.
During this exchange, Cayla's friend, Atlanta had been silent.
"Atlanta, I came here to ask… well, nothing. Forget about it. I already spent too much time here." Victor said with a shrug.
"My ___" his voice trailed off as he looked to the side, just behind the counter, his very own nightmare.
"Will kill me."