“It’s gonna be a good day,” I celebrated to myself. My spot just emptied at the exact moment I opened the door to the coffee shop. I dropped two of my three bags to reserve my table, and went to the counter to place my order. “One tall mint chocolate frappe for here?”, he asked with his ever consistent smile.  I returned the smile to my favorite barista and said “Yes, thank you DJ.”

As I took a seat with my drink on hand, I saw that the customer before me left her unfinished coffee sitting on my table. I didn’t mind it as I was focused to start my work urgently. I needed to write a story and send it to my boss come end of day. I was eager and determined not to mess up my first job as a writer. I just had to impress my boss.

But with only sheets full of childish doodles and only fragments of nonsense to be told, I got nothing worth of a story. With four unopened emails from my boss, an empty cup of my drink and only three hours remaining, I still had zero inspiration to write. I stared hopelessly at my coffee-table-turned-work-desk desk that felt too cluttered yet totally empty, just like my mind. Suddenly, my eyes studied the half-full cup of Caffe Americano on my table. I stared at it blankly, wasting forever staring into something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I managed to snap out of my daze when I heard someone said, “Want me to take care of that?” I watched as DJ took the cold cup away from gaze.

Noticeably, the cup had already left brown, mild stains on my table. How familiar it looked for me. I suddenly remembered how it felt to always have a cup of coffee in my hands. All the things I got to do, with the feeling I was unstoppable. The rush and charge running through my body was magnified. I felt powerful and relentless. The feeling was ecstatic. Motivation and inspiration was never a problem. I was on top of the world and nothing could bring me down. I didn’t want it to stop. I was in love with the feeling it gave me.

But it reminded me why I stopped drinking coffee. It became an addiction. I relied on it too much, I couldn’t write without the bitter taste hanging on my lips. It became so bad it kept leaving stains everywhere. When I tried to remove the stains in my life, I couldn’t wash them all away. How it had left stains on my writings – my words, my echoes of thoughts. My health, my thoughts, my heart all depended on reliving the past over and over. But I couldn’t fool myself into thinking that. I had to accept that I needed to move on. I needed a good grip on reality without the help of anything else.

A napkin suddenly fell on my table. DJ started wiping the stains away. “There, like it’s brand new,” he said smiling. As he left, I looked at my spotless table. I took out a white, clean sheet of paper and clicked on my pen. I started to write.


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