Chapter 8: Cheap Coffee, Big Words

—Because nothing says intimacy like bad coffee and worse life choices.

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There are two kinds of places that stay open 24/7: convenience stores and diners.

One sells you instant noodles. The other sells you false hope served in a chipped mug.

I wasn’t sure which one Yume needed tonight. Probably both.

But I picked the diner.

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The neon sign outside flickered like it was dying. Which felt appropriate for us. Inside, it smelled like burnt toast and resignation. A waitress in her fifties gave us the kind of look people save for runaways and bad ideas. Which, again, was accurate.

We slid into a booth by the window. Rain streaked down the glass, blurring the city outside into a smear of red and yellow lights.

The vinyl seat squeaked under me. Everything here squeaked, like the whole place was trying to warn us away.

“Classy,” Yume said, running her fingers over the sticky table edge. “You always bring girls to high-end places like this?”

“Only the ones who appreciate good lighting,” I said.

“Good lighting?” She tilted her head. “It feels like we’re sitting inside a broken fridge.”

“…It’s a theme.”

She laughed. It made the buzzing fluorescent lights sound less depressing.

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The waitress dropped two mugs and a pot of coffee. No smile. No “enjoy your night.” Just caffeine and contempt.

Yume traced the rim of her mug with her finger. “You didn’t have to bring me here, you know.”

“I know.”

“So why did you?”

“Because you looked like you were about to melt into that rain.”

“Wow. Poetry. Careful, Kazuki. You keep this up, I might think you have feelings.”

I sipped my coffee. Bitter. Tasted like burnt promises.

“…Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

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For a while, we just sat there. Two strangers pretending they weren’t. Steam curled from the mugs, fogging the air with the smell of cheap beans.

Then she said:

> “You ever wonder why people keep doing things that hurt?”

I looked at her. Her blind eyes didn’t look back, but they pinned me anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I play because I want to feel alive,” she said. Her fingers tapped the table in a rhythm only she heard. “Even when it hurts. Even when it reminds me what I’ve lost.”

“…Sounds like punishment.”

“Maybe it is.” She smiled faintly. “Your turn.”

“…I fight,” I said after a beat.

“I figured.”

“It’s the only time I know I’m alive.”

Her smile faded. Just a little. “That sounds… sad.”

“It is,” I admitted.

The honesty felt heavy. Like a bruise you forget about until someone presses it.

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When the silence settled again, I noticed her hands in her lap. One moved slowly—too slowly—slipping something from her pocket.

A small white bottle. Pill rattles.

She twisted the cap like someone handling a secret. Took two pills. Swallowed them dry.

When she looked up, her smile was back.

But it was too quick. Too clean. Like it was hiding something that didn’t want to be seen.

I didn’t say anything.

But I memorized that sound—the rattle of pills in a plastic bottle.

Because nothing good ever comes in small doses.

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She changed the subject before I could.

> “If you could be anything,” she asked, “what would you be?”

“Alive,” I said.

She laughed. Like it was a joke. Maybe it was.

Maybe it wasn’t.

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We stayed there until the coffee went cold and the rain stopped pretending it cared about washing the world clean.

When I walked her home, she hummed a tune under her breath—soft, broken, but determined to exist.

And I thought:

I’ve been in hundreds of fights.

But I’ve never been more scared of losing than I was right now.

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