A bell chimes above your head as you enter the shop, attracting the attention of the staff, who smile and greet you in unison. You dip your head in a polite bow, then give your order to the cashier and head to a table by the window. Your feet walk on instinct. Headphones in, you lean flush against the glass and allow your eyes to slide shut, enjoying the simple warmth of sunlight on your cheek.

You’re still not quite sure why you’ve come. It’s become somewhat of a habit to you — the kind of pattern you can’t seem to break — waiting for him in spaces that used to bear his weight. Spaces in which his presence still vaguely lingers.

The barista brings over your coffee and you smile, a distant, faded attempt that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You take a sip of the coffee, and with it, a thousand memories of him come flooding back, each bittersweet, like the taste of black coffee on your tongue.

————

As you stepped inside the shop for the very first time, you wiped off the excess snow from your boots on the mat and approached the counter. You glanced at the menu, but it was more out of habit than anything else. You always got the same thing.

“Iced Americano-”

“Iced Americano-” a voice at the adjacent register spoke in unison.

You both stopped short, turning slowly to face one another. His hair, a warm, rich caramel, raked messily across his eyes, and the tip of his nose had turned pink with the cold. The two of you must have been the only people in Seoul still ordering iced coffee at such a time of year. 

You let out a giggle, causing the stranger’s eyes widen a bit in surprise, before he caught himself. He offered back an amused chuckle in return.

Glancing away shyly, you began digging through your purse for you wallet to pay. Before you had the chance, however, an arm entered your field of vision, and you looked up to find the stranger handing his card to the cashier taking your order.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started, but one look at his curious smirk and every rational though disappeared from your head.

“It’s no problem.” he said, smoothly passing the buzzer into your hand and walking off with his own. You snuck glances at him from a table by the window as he accepted his drink from the barista with gloved fingers, then stepped out of the shop and into the deep, black night.

From that moment on, the cafe became your ‘spot’. In part, because it was located directly across the street from your apartment complex, and, in an admittedly much, much larger part, because it offered you the chance to run into him.

You weren’t disappointed.

At roughly the same time every night, the stranger would drop by and pick up an iced Americano on his way to work. And every night you’d peek at him over your textbooks, offering a shy smile if he so happened to look your way.

One night, you arrived at the shop later than usual. You spent the whole walk over lamenting having missed your chance, only to find the barista smiling widely at you on your way in.

“The guy from earlier asked me to give this to you.” she said sweetly, handing you an iced Americano accompanied by a handwritten note.

In neat, black writing, it read simply:

I’m Kim Himchan. What’s your name?

Three months later, in the same shop, you sat together making silly jokes and enjoying the first doldrums of spring wafting throughout the small store. Himchan sipped at the final dregs of coffee before staring forlornly at his empty cup.

“Buy me another?” he begged, giving you a look he well-knew you found impossible to resist.

You rolled your eyes at him, making a show of it by groaning loudly in false annoyance.

“You’re seriously way too addicted to these things.” you said with a pout, frowning at him before standing and heading towards the counter to order another. You didn’t make it very far, however, before his hand grabbed a hold of your arm and gave it a sharp pull, sending you stumbling back. You let out a surprised gasp as you crashed down onto his lap.

“What are you—”

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath before colliding his lips against yours.

His lips felt cold, chilled from the ice. Like a cup of strong coffee, his kiss woke you up inside, breathing life into your sleepy world.

You laughed shyly against his lips, not yet ready to pull away. His fingers played absently along the back of your neck.

“You taste like coffee.” you giggled, sipping shots of espresso out of the dark, clear depths of his eyes.

“I thought you liked coffee?” he murmured, frowning a little.

You smiled, brushing the tip of your nose lightly against his.

“I love it.”

————

The sound of the bell chiming pulls you back to the present. You grind your palms against your eyes until your vision explodes in streaks of bright colors that help chase away visions of his face. But it’s only temporarily. Silent and unnoticed, they always manage to come leaking back.

It’s been nearly a year since you broke up. Four whole seasons have passed since you’ve heard his voice through the phone, or felt his touch on your skin. It doesn’t hurt the way it did in the beginning. In fact, it barely hurts at all.

So why do you still spend your time chasing after remnants of the past?

With a heavy sigh, you stand and head for the door, carrying what’s left of your coffee in tow. Outside, it has started to rain, the sudden, hot downpour native to Seoul summers. You pause at the threshold of the door and look dismally out onto the rain-slicked streets, not looking forward to making the walk home.

Out of the corner of your eye, however, something catches your attention. Propped against the door of the shop is a single umbrella, two initials inscribed in gold lettering along the handle. K.H.

You grow still as a shiver travels the length your spine. The realization that you’re being watched surfaces slowly in your mind, and whether it’s the product of reality or illusion, you swear you can smell his scent in the wind, lingering in this space the two of you used to share.

With softly shaking hands, you take the umbrella and step out onto the sidewalk. As you head for home, you can still feel the eyes watching you from somewhere off in the distance.

And, like the fading aroma of coffee, it lingers:

The subtle thrum of an unfinished love story.