Coffee and an Open Page

Fred stared at the blank page, a song stuck somewhere between his chest and the tip of his pen, too real to let out. A barista's unexpected kindness might just be the catalyst he needs.

The summer sun, already past its peak, slanted through the tall windows of The Cafe on Portage, laying a warm, dusty stripe across Fred’s chipped tabletop. He traced the grain of the worn wood with a calloused thumb, the faint sticky residue from a thousand forgotten coffee rings clinging to his skin. His notebook, a spiral-bound thing with a dog-eared cover, lay open to a fresh, unforgivingly white page. His pen, a cheap ballpoint with a chewed-up cap, hovered an inch above the surface, a tiny, impotent satellite.

The café hummed around him. The low thrum of the fridge in the back, the occasional clatter of ceramic from behind the counter, the murmur of a couple arguing softly over the merits of oat milk. Outside, the steady drone of Portage Avenue traffic was a constant, almost comforting, presence. None of it reached him, not really. He was trapped in the quiet, suffocating space between his brain and that empty page.

He’d been here for an hour. Maybe two. The half-empty glass of iced tea, sweating rings onto the table, was proof of his stagnation. Every time he tried to push past the block, a cold, oily dread spread through his gut, knotting everything up. It wasn’t that he had nothing to say. It was that he had *too much*. Too much truth, too much raw, messy feeling he was terrified to commit to ink.

His current obsession, a melody that had been rattling around his head for weeks, felt like a live thing, squirming, refusing to be pinned down. It was about… well, it was about everything. About how sometimes you feel like you’re trying to catch smoke, about friendships that were shifting, about the weird, hopeful, terrifying pull of the future. Mostly, it was about being alone even when you weren't. And that last part, that was the sticky bit.

He wanted to write it. Needed to write it. But the words felt… too big. Too revealing. What if someone heard it? What if they knew? He imagined his friends, Jacob and Mei, listening, their faces twisting with a mix of pity and confusion. *Fred? Feeling like that?* It wasn’t the cool, detached vibe he usually projected. It wasn't the easygoing, slightly sarcastic Fred they knew.

He picked up the pen, twirled it between his fingers, the plastic warm and smooth. Tried to remember the feeling of the melody, the way it dipped and soared. But the dread pushed it back down, like trying to hold a beach ball under water. He could feel the panic on his tongue. What was the point, anyway? Who cared? Just another kid with a guitar and a journal.

From behind the worn espresso machine, Cathy had been watching him. Not overtly, just glances between pulling shots and wiping down counters. She'd seen him dozens of times over the past few months, always in that same corner, usually with the same notebook. Sometimes he'd be furiously scribbling, sometimes just staring, like today. She liked his quiet intensity, the way he seemed oblivious to the world around him. He reminded her a little of herself, twenty years ago, before the coffee steam had become her constant companion.

He was a regular, though he barely spoke beyond ordering his iced tea. ‘Fred,’ the little note on her order screen read. She knew his name. Knew his drink. Knew he was wrestling with something heavier than homework. She saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he chewed on the pen cap, in the deep furrow between his brows.

The cafe wasn't just a place to serve coffee. It was a space, a kind of sanctuary for the regulars, a hub. She believed in that, in fostering a bit of warmth in a city that could sometimes feel like a concrete slab in January, even in July. So, she took a breath, smoothed down her apron, and walked around the counter. Her movements were practiced, fluid, not bothering the few scattered patrons.

She approached his table, a faint scent of vanilla and burnt sugar following her. Fred didn't look up, still engrossed in his battle with the paper. She cleared her throat gently. “Another iced tea, Fred? On me today. Looks like you’re really working hard.”

He flinched, startled, his head snapping up. His eyes, a soft hazel, were wide, a deer-in-headlights look. “Oh. Uh, no, I’m good, thanks, Cathy.” He glanced at his almost empty glass, then at the notebook, as if it was a tell-all document he needed to hide. He instinctively reached for it, but stopped, leaving it open, exposed.

Cathy smiled, a genuine, crinkling-at-the-eyes sort of smile. “No problem. Just thought you might need a refresh. You’ve been at it a while.” She gestured vaguely at the notebook. “Trying to catch the muse?” She kept her voice light, not too intrusive. Just an open door.

Fred’s gaze darted from her face to the page and back. His fingers fidgeted at the edge of the notebook. “Something like that, I guess.” He trailed off, the words feeling thin and insufficient. He wished she would just go back behind the counter, let him suffer in peace.

She leaned against the table’s edge, not sitting, not crowding, just present. “It’s a tough business, catching muses. Sometimes they’re slippery. Sometimes they just… refuse to come out.” She paused, giving him space, but not letting the silence become unbearable. “Or sometimes, you just don’t want them to.”

Her words hung in the air, oddly direct. Fred felt a prickle of something – annoyance, maybe, or a tiny spark of recognition. How did she know? He looked at her, really looked, past the apron and the friendly smile, and saw an easy confidence in her posture, a wisdom in her calm eyes. He swallowed, his throat feeling dry.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, finally. “Yeah, that’s… that’s kind of it.” He picked up the pen again, tapped the tip softly against the blank paper, a tiny, almost inaudible *click, click, click*.

“What’s… what’s stopping you?” Cathy asked, her voice soft, inviting, not demanding. She wasn't just making small talk; she was genuinely curious. She truly wanted to know. Fred looked at her, then down at the page again. He traced an invisible line with the pen.

He should lie. Say it’s writer’s block, say he’s just tired. But something in her steady gaze made him want to tell the truth. Or at least, a version of it. “It’s… I don’t know. It feels… too honest, I guess.” He looked up at her, a flicker of genuine vulnerability in his eyes. “Like, if I write what’s actually in my head, what I’m actually feeling… it’ll be out there. And then… everyone will know.”

Cathy nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “And what’s so bad about everyone knowing?” she asked, her voice still gentle, but with a slight edge of challenge. She didn’t mean it harshly. She meant it as an invitation to examine the fear, to truly understand its root.

Fred shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, but also… relieved to be talking about it. “It’s just… it’s not really how I want to be seen, you know? Like, it’s all these messy feelings. And it’s… it’s just me. Not a character. Just me.” He gestured vaguely at his chest, then at the page. “And it feels really vulnerable. Like I’m putting my insides out for everyone to see and poke at.”

“Ah,” Cathy said, a knowing look in her eyes. “So, it’s not the writing that’s the problem. It’s the showing.” She paused, letting that sink in. The gentle clink of ice in Fred’s tea glass was suddenly loud. “You know,” she continued, “when I first opened this place, ten years ago, I had a similar feeling.”

Fred frowned, surprised. “Really? With a coffee shop?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. “I’d dreamed about this place for ages. Had every detail planned, every bean sourced, every pastry recipe perfected. But actually opening the doors, actually putting my dream out there… it felt like walking out naked onto Portage Avenue. Everyone looking. Everyone judging. What if they hated it? What if they laughed at my latte art?” She mimed a shudder, a playful glint in her eyes.

“But you did it,” Fred said, a hint of awe in his voice. He looked around the cozy, bustling cafe, at the worn but comfortable furniture, the eclectic artwork on the walls. It felt like *her*. It felt authentic.

“I did,” Cathy confirmed. “Because the alternative, keeping it all locked inside, felt worse. Like a constant ache. And what I realized was, the people who came in, they weren’t looking to judge. They were looking for a good coffee, a comfortable spot, maybe a moment of peace. They were looking for something real.”

She picked up Fred’s pen, turning it over in her fingers. “Your songs, Fred. They’re like this cafe. They’re a piece of you. And the people who hear them, the people who connect with them, they won’t be judging you. They’ll be finding a piece of themselves in your truth.” She put the pen back down gently, precisely where he’d left it.

Fred stared at the pen. Her words felt like a cool cloth pressed against his forehead. *A piece of themselves in your truth.* It wasn’t about him being exposed, it was about connection. It was about creating something that resonated with other people, not just for them to pick apart, but to find comfort in, or understanding.

He remembered a song he’d heard once, a raw, aching ballad about feeling invisible. He hadn’t felt judged listening to it. He’d felt… seen. Understood. Like someone else knew that exact, specific ache. That was what Cathy was talking about, wasn't it?

“But what if it’s… not good?” he asked, the old doubt trying to claw its way back. The thought of writing something so honest, only for it to fall flat, to be dismissed, felt like a fresh sting.

Cathy laughed softly. “Good is subjective, Fred. Real? Real is undeniable. Don’t aim for perfect. Aim for honest. And the ‘good’ will follow. Because when something is true, people feel it. It doesn’t need to be polished or performative.” She paused. “And anyway, who cares if it’s not ‘good’ to some people? It’s yours. That’s enough.”

She pushed a small, clean napkin across the table towards him. “Start small. Just one line. The truest line you can think of. Doesn’t have to rhyme. Doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you, for now.” She straightened up, her expression warm, encouraging. “And sometimes, the scariest thing is the most important thing to say.”

Fred looked at the napkin, then back at the blank page. The sunlight had shifted, now painting the opposite wall, but the warmth still lingered. He took a deep breath, the scent of coffee and lingering vanilla filling his lungs. The knot in his stomach hadn't completely disappeared, but it had loosened, just a fraction. Enough to make room.

He reached for his pen. His fingers felt less clumsy now, more purposeful. He still had no idea what the first line would be, but the overwhelming dread had receded, replaced by a tiny, fragile curiosity. What *was* the truest line? What was the one thing he absolutely had to say?

He looked at the blank page again, but this time, it didn’t feel like a barrier. It felt like an invitation. A space. His space. He could fill it with anything he wanted. Anything he *needed*.

A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his hand as he lowered the pen. It wasn't perfect. He knew it wouldn't be. But it would be real. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough. He touched the tip of the pen to the paper, a faint scratch against the quiet hum of the cafe, and began to write.

The words formed slowly, awkwardly, at first. A single, looping line that wasn’t quite a lyric, not yet. Just a thought. An observation. A feeling that had been trapped for too long, finally seeing the light of day. It was messy. It was clumsy. It was exactly what it needed to be. And as the first word took shape, then the next, a tiny, almost imperceptible weight lifted from his shoulders, replaced by a quiet, determined hum of possibility. He wrote another word, then another, the scratching of the pen on paper a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to the distant street noise, a new, tentative song beginning to form.