The tinkling chimes at the doorway create a melodic greeting as the glass door swings open, swaying the hanging Welcome sign. It ushers in a fleeting rush of street noise and the outside heat into the air-conditioned room. The door closes gently behind the newcomers, swaying shut by the concealed swing door openers. The woman stationed behind the counter wastes no time in offering a warm welcome, her voice carrying through the café, “Welcome to Honey Bakes!”

Two figures grace the café with their presence, a man and a woman. The man follows a short distance behind the woman, who possesses brown-highlighted hair that grazes her bare, glistening morena shoulders, courtesy of a white tube top. She moves gracefully, causing her aquamarine wide-leg pants to sway and her white, two-inch heels to tap lightly on the tiled floor. In one hand, she cradles her slim gray laptop bag close to her chest, while her other hand intertwines gently with the man’s.

They make their way toward the only available table left in the bustling café—the one adjacent to ours. The woman settles into the chair next to mine, and the man hangs a black coat on the back of his own chair, presumably hers, as he is already clad in a sharp blue suit.

He leans over to her and asks, “The usual?” “You remember?”

He smiles and says, “Of course I do.” His hand slips into his pocket, brushing against the smooth surface of his phone—forgotten as soon as it is touched, unlike the others in the café, tethered to their screens. He sets it down absently on the table. He retrieves his wallet instead, thumbing it open with practiced ease before heading to the counter, just one table away.

I watch their quiet exchange, the unhurried way they fall into step with one another. There’s a quiet understanding between them, something instinctive, as natural as breath. I wonder if all couples eventually learn this kind of silent fluency, or if only a few ever do.

With her laptop bag placed on the table, I anticipate she might power up her device and begin working. However, she simply rests her hands on top of the bag. Her arms are bare, free from elaborate jewelry, save for a thin-laced gold watch on her left wrist and a slender gold ring on her right hand. The ring, its surface softened by time, catches the light as she turns it between her fingers. No diamond, no stones, nothing meant to dazzle—just a simple band, its only adornment a faint inscription, half-hidden when she twists it. She does this without thought, again and again. Yet, there is a care in the way she moves, the way her fingers pause, as if ensuring it is still there, as if the act of checking has become second nature.

It sits on her right hand. Not an engagement ring, not yet. But perhaps it means just the same—something she checks for, something she keeps close. Her thumb tracing its edge in a steady, unconscious motion.

She fixes her gaze upon him as he places their order, pointing to the café staff as he runs his eyes to the menu. Afterward, she stows the bag in the extra chair space, leaning it against the armrest. Then she leans toward the table, resting her head on her hand, her cheek cradled in her palm. Her eyes sparkle as she admires his tall, well-built figure adorned in the fitted suit.

I glance at my own table. My fingers brush against the condensation on the Mocha glass.

The man returns to their table carrying a wooden tray bearing two beverages—one in a tall glass with ice, the other in a white coffee cup decorated with cat-shaped latte art. He gingerly

sets the tray down and hands the woman her latte, eliciting a delighted laugh from her as she exclaims, “You really know me!”

“Kind of resembles Chowder, doesn’t it?” The man chuckles.

“Yeah, except Chowder’s fur is gray.”  

The two share a moment of mirth, their lips stretching into crescent shapes as their eyes lock.

* * *

“I think their cloud latte looks interesting,” I remark, while glancing up at the menu board from my seat after observing the woman’s coffee cup.

“You told me you were fine with Mocha,” he replies without lifting his gaze from his laptop. The glow of the screen reflects off his glasses as he scrolls through a PDF file of Anna Karenina that he has been reading since we got here. His eyes move steadily across the lines, his expression unreadable, absorbed in words that speak of love and sacrifice. His fingers tap the edge of the keyboard in measured intervals, a habit as precise as the way he smooths the creases on his sleeves or aligns his belongings just so.

“Well, you like Mocha, and you wanted to share,” I reply. He pauses, his eyes shifting from the screen to meet mine.

“I did ask you what you liked. So, do you not want the drink?” He poses, his arms folded across his chest.

“I do like the drink,” I assure him. “Then what’s the issue?”

“I’m just saying, I usually order lattes every time we come to a café. Don’t you remember?”

“So you don’t want this?”

“No, I mean, I’m okay with it. I’m just saying. Do you even know my favorites?

“Come on! You don’t always go for lattes. You often try new coffee drinks you find on the menu.”

“I enjoy trying new things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my preferences.

He lets out a sigh and says, “Just tell me next time what you really want. I’ll order it for you.” He makes a quick shift in his seat without uncrossing his arms, and his eyes return to his laptop screen, as if an invisible barrier now separates us, one he has just closed to avoid further disturbance.

I remember the first time we met, back in our first year. It was in literature class, and he stood up with the same confidence he carries now, reciting a passage from Anna Karenina as if he had lived those words himself. “Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.” His voice had filled the quiet room, steady, certain. I remember thinking then, this is a man who understands love. How could he not, when he spoke of it with such conviction?

I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

I watch the faint crease on his brow, the way he occasionally nods to himself, lost in the pages of a story where love is everything. Outside the screen’s glow, the café hums with quiet chatter, the scent of freshly ground coffee curling into the air. The woman at the next table lifts her latte with both hands, savoring it slowly. I press my fingers against the cool glass of my Mocha, then pull away, leaving faint marks that disappear almost instantly.

* * *

At the neighboring table, the woman gestures toward the café’s white tables and wooden chairs, her eyes filled with admiration for the pleasing color scheme and design of Honey Bakes.

Her hands move gracefully as she conveys her appreciation, expressing approval for the room’s clean and inviting ambiance.

“This place reminds me of that little café in Tagaytay,” she says, tracing the rim of her cup. “The one we found when we got lost?”

The man chuckles, setting his spoon down. “The one where you insisted on ordering that lavender coffee even though you hate floral flavors?”

She laughs, nudging his hand. “I wanted to try something new. But you ordered a latte for yourself. And you exchanged with mine.”

“Because I just know,” he says, shaking his head. “Remember that restaurant by the beach? You barely touched your food, and I ended up eating two full meals.”

She grins. “And you complained about it the whole time, but you still did it …”

As she continues to speak, the man opposite her gazes at her with the same adoration reflected in her eyes. He watches her the way people watch sunsets, with quiet certainty. It’s as if an irresistible magnetic force naturally draws him into her orbit, causing him to become immersed in the expansive space she has created around her.

After a while, the man can no longer resist the urge and picks up his phone on the table to capture a picture of the woman. As she takes a sip from her cup, he discreetly snaps a photo, emitting a soft chuckle that captures the woman’s attention.

“Hey!” She playfully sets down her cup and lightly taps his arm, unaware that a trace of milk foam rests just above her upper lip. This prompts the man to burst into laughter and swiftly take another picture of her. He shows her the photo, and they both erupt in laughter, with the woman covering her mouth with both hands. He reaches for a tissue from the napkin dispenser on their table’s corner and passes it to her.

Over the next few minutes, they take turns photographing each other while having their coffees, their laughter echoing as they examine their images. Then, they delve into a conversation about topics known only to them, as though they have been part of each other’s worlds for a very long time. While they converse, they teasingly intertwine their fingers, gliding them smoothly across each other’s palms, and from time to time, their hands playfully clasp together above the table.

“So, how’s everything going over there?” the man asks.

“Yeah, it’s been good. We’re up on a major product launch this month. A new beverage from Vietnam. Quite hectic for the past week.”

He tilts his head. “Getting overworked?”

She exhales, stirring her drink. “Yeah, but this work pays. Well, somehow,” she chuckles.

“Coordinating campaigns, handling clients, all that—it keeps me on my toes. I’ve got the hang of it after a while.”

He nods, as if he understands. “I’ve always believed in you.”

The woman blushes and laughs it off, but I catch the way her fingers tighten slightly around her cup, the quiet weight of his words settling between them.

“We’re planning for Sir King’s birthday at the end of this week.” “Oh, really? A company dinner?”

“Yes, so I might get home late on Friday, but we’re dining at Italianni’s, the one in High Street, so it’s still in the area.”

“Will you drive yourself home? I can just pick you up. You must be tired by then,” the man offers.

“That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it,” she replies softly, her hand lightly resting on his arm. “Not working late on Friday?”

He exhales, tilting his head slightly. “Reggie asked me to finalize some projections—something about inflation trends affecting our latest report. Might take a while to clean up the numbers.”

She watches him for a moment, the unspoken question lingering between them. He chuckles, brushing off her concern. “Hey, I can still pick you up. I’ll just wrap things up and head straight over. I’m just fifteen minutes away.”

She lingers before giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “How about a late dinner when we get back? Get some takeout.”

“Did you read my mind?” he teases, grinning.

* * *

“Look at them,” I say to him, subtly gesturing toward the man and woman at the adjacent table as he takes a sip of his Mocha.

“The couple?” he asks.

“Yeah, they really look like one.”

“All couples look like couples. Sometimes friends can appear like a couple, but all couples look like couples,” he remarks, glancing briefly at the neighboring table.

“Do you think that when people see us, they think we’re a couple?”

My question tests his patience, and he takes a moment to sip and savor his drink. After swallowing, he lets out a sigh, and his silence stretches out, making a single minute feel like an agonizing eternity. Under the table, I clench my fists tightly on my lap.

“We are a couple, and what others think doesn’t matter,” he declares. Internally, I contemplate whether to respond and what to say. I allow myself to ponder his statement. Maybe he’s right, perhaps I’m overthinking and leaving myself too vulnerable to the scrutiny and opinions of others.

“What makes you think we’re any different from them? We’re two people sharing a table in a coffee shop, just like they are,” he continues.

“Well, I don’t know … They seem to be in love.”

“You think we’re not?” he asks, his sharp, penetrating eyes fixed on me. The Mocha drink slowly dilutes with melted ice, transforming from a deep chocolate hue to a pale shade. Tiny water droplets cling to the outer surface of the glass.

“You should worry about more important things,” he says, tapping his fingers against the table. “How many years do we have left in college? We’re going to be dealing with serious things, real things, pretty soon. It’s ahead of us.”

I press the tip of my straw against the bottom of the glass, watching the last remnants of ice break apart. His words linger, but not in the way he intends.

At the next table, the woman laughs. Her fingers brushing his as she reaches for her cup.

Neither of them seem to notice.

I glance back at him, and his gaze is elsewhere already. For the first time, I wonder if I belong there too.

* * *

“The coffee here is really something,” the woman comments, taking the final sip of her latte.

“Yeah, it better be, after we circled Tomas Morato for half an hour,” the man jests, and they share a light-hearted laugh.

A strand of hair slips over her shoulder, and she tucks it behind her ear without breaking her gaze from him. When she speaks, her voice carries easily over the hum of the café unhurried, like she has never had to repeat herself to be heard. She reaches for a napkin, the gesture slow, unrushed, like someone who has never had to fight for attention. The light catches in her eyes, steady and bright, as if reflecting something constant, something that has never wavered. She sits at the heart of her own world—or ours, reshaped by his quiet devotion into something that belongs to her alone. She glows in the warm light, luminous with his attention, while the rest of us fade into the shadows.

“Do you want some water before we head out?” He offers to the woman.

“No, I’m good,” she replies, and he takes the last sip of his iced drink. With that done, they prepare to leave, using tissues to wipe their mouths and cheeks, placing their glasses and cups in the center of the table, and sanitizing their hands with the woman’s small bottle of alcohol.

* * *

“It’s getting late now,” he observes, glancing out through the glass walls from his seat. We can see that cars have switched on their headlights, and the streets are bathed in a soft yellow glow. “Do you want to finish your coffee?”

I turn to answer, but behind him, the wall mirror catches my eye. My face, faint and colorless, hovers in the glass, blurred by the overhead bulbs. Nothing like the woman at the next table.

I take the partially empty coffee glass from his side of the table and gently swirl it in a circular motion, mixing the melted ice with the Mocha before taking a sip.

* * *

The man assists the woman in donning her black coat, holding it up as she slides her arms into the sleeves. While she smooths out the coat, the man takes her laptop bag, pushes their chairs closer to the table, and extends his hand to her, which she gladly accepts.

“I really enjoy this place. We should visit again sometime after work,” the man suggests as they make their way toward the exit.

“Absolutely,” the woman replies with a smile.

Meanwhile, as I take a sip of my drink, he has already started packing his belongings, stowing his laptop inside his bag and using a tissue from the napkin dispenser to wipe his mouth and hands. I find myself unable to finish the drink; one sip is enough. The sweet Mocha we ordered an hour and a half ago now tastes so insipid it’s almost unbearable. He rises from his seat, slides his backpack onto his shoulders, and begins to stride away, with me trailing slightly behind. One hand holds his phone, while the other dangles in the air, looking pallid and dry after enduring the cold, numbing room. “Would you like to come back here after school?” he asks, looking back at me.

As I walk, I cast a glance around the cafe, committing the details of its interior to memory, along with the faces of people I know I’ll never recall. Just as the couple reaches the exit and steps outside, the cafe staff chimes in with a boisterous, “Thank you for coming! Please visit us again!” Their voices carry a lively cadence.

The place exudes a delightful ambiance, with people sporting joyful expressions and enjoying delectable drinks served in elegant cups. Yet, it seems that the drinks are sweeter at other tables, just not ours.

“I don’t think so. Turns out I don’t like Mocha after all,” I reply to him as we follow the couple ahead of us, making our exit from Honey Bakes.