She ordered the same
latte every Tuesday, and
the barista never asked
her name — it was
already on the cup, a
small mercy she hadn't
expected when the city
first swallowed her. The
streets still confused
her; she walked home the
long way twice before
admitting she was lost.
But here, under the hum
of the milk steamer,
being unknown didn't feel
like being invisible. It
felt like a room that
had saved her seat. She
sat by the window,
watched the evening
arrange itself outside,
and let herself be
exactly where she was —
a little lonely, a
little lost, and somehow
still held.