Clifford

The sound of the bell above the coffee shop door became part of the morning rhythm in town. People came in, chatted briefly, grabbed their coffee, and left. It was predictable, measured, like the ticks of a clock. I didn’t care for coffee. Honestly, I thought it was bitter and overrated. But every day at 8:30 sharp, I found myself pushing open that door, stepping into the warm scent of chocolate and cinnamon, just to see him. His name was Clifford—“just Clifford” as he always corrected anyone who tried to add a “Mr.” or a last name. Ten years older than me, maybe more, but who was counting? His eyes were this peculiar gray in the mornings—stormy but lighter, catching flecks of sunlight through the window. I told myself I went to the shop because of convenience. It wasn’t a lie exactly; it was just easier to swallow than the truth, which was that I was hopelessly infatuated with a man I knew almost nothing about. And maybe that was my mistake—falling for the mystery instead of the man. Love has a way of blinding you until the truth finally peels away the layers and whispers, “Do you see now?” I didn’t *want* to see it. But by the time I did, it was too late.