Chapter 2
It turns out that starting a story is a lot like making the perfect cup of coffee—it's all about timing, temperature, and trying not to burn yourself in the process. I've been staring at my laptop screen for the past hour, the cursor blinking mockingly at me while I try to figure out how to begin. The word document is as blank as the faces of customers before their morning caffeine fix.
"Order up!" Zoe calls from behind me, and I jump, nearly knocking over my own coffee. Right. I'm at work. Where I should be making drinks instead of agonizing over opening lines. Zoe, with her perfectly winged eyeliner and an undercut that somehow always looks effortlessly cool, raises an eyebrow at my jumpiness but doesn't comment. At twenty-five, she's the youngest shift supervisor Power Beans has ever had, and between her striking amber eyes and the gradient of purple to silver in her short hair, she looks more like she should be running an indie record store than a coffee shop.
"Charlotte!" A gruff voice cuts through the morning chaos. Mr. Sullivan, our store manager, emerges from his office like a bear from hibernation, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration. At fifty-six, he runs Power Beans with the precision of a military operation and the perpetual demeanor of someone who just bit into a lemon. "The health inspector's coming next week. I need those cleaning logs up to date by the end of the shift."
I nod quickly, adding it to my mental to-do list. Mr. Sullivan's been managing Power Beans for fifteen years, and though his perfectionism drives us crazy, his grumpy exterior hides a fierce protectiveness of his staff. Last month, when a customer made Zoe cry over a wrong drink order, he'd banned the guy for life. Still, that doesn't stop him from treating every minor task like it's a matter of national security.
The morning rush at Power Beans is in full swing, a symphony of espresso machines hissing, milk steaming, and customers tapping away at their phones while they wait. I've gotten pretty good at multitasking over the years—I can steam milk while plotting character arcs and pull espresso shots while working out dialogue. But today, my mind keeps drifting back to the Wattpad app I downloaded yesterday.
"Grande oat milk latte for Anna!" I call out, setting the drink on the counter. Anna picks up her drink with a bright smile, her dark bob falling forward as she leans over the counter. She’s only twenty-four, yet she already has a reputation as one of the city's up-and-coming wedding photographers, though right now, with her bright blue eyes lit up with excitement, she looks more like one of the excitable brides she photographs. "Thanks, Charlotte! Hey, did Aaron tell you about the wedding shoot he booked? The one at the botanical gardens?"
"The Anderson-Liu wedding? Yeah, he wouldn't shut up about their orchid-themed color scheme." I start on the next drink in line. "Are you second shooting for him?"
Anna nods, her dark bob swinging with the movement. "It's going to be amazing. The couple wants this whole ethereal garden vibe, and Aaron's vision for it is just—" She stops, noticing something in my expression. "Sorry, am I keeping you from work?"
"No, no, it's fine," I say, even though there are approximately twelve drinks in my queue and Zoe is giving me The Look from the register. "I'm just a little distracted today. Trying to figure out how to start a new story."
Anna's eyes light up. "Oh my god, you're writing again? After the whole Marcus thing and the rejections, I wasn't sure if—" She cuts herself off, looking mortified. "Sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up."
"It's fine," I say. "And yes, I'm writing again. Actually, I was wondering... you used to use Wattpad, right?"
"Used to? Girl, I still do. It's my guilty pleasure. Why?"15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM8w8aFR4Jz
I hesitate, steaming milk for what feels like the hundredth caramel macchiato of the morning. The truth is, I spent half the night scrolling through Wattpad, amazed by the sheer variety of stories, the passionate comments from readers, and the sense of community. It was like discovering a whole parallel universe of writing, one where the gatekeepers of traditional publishing couldn't tell you your romantic subplot was "too prominent" or your voice was "not quite refined enough."
"I'm thinking of posting something," I say. "But I have no idea where to start."
"Wait," Anna says, tilting her head. "What about all those stories you wrote before? The ones you sent to agents? You could start with those."
I shake my head, wrapping my hands around my cup. "No, I want to write something new. Something different."
Anna's face breaks into a grin that reminds me why Aaron briefly fell for her, even if they weren't romantically compatible in the end.
"Okay, listen," she says, leaning across the counter conspiratorially. "My shift doesn't start for another hour. Let me grab a table, and when you're done, I'll give you the complete Wattpad crash course. The dos, the don'ts, the tags you need to use—everything."
"Tags?" I ask weakly, but she's already sashaying toward her favorite corner table, phone in hand.
The next forty-five minutes are a blur of drink orders and stolen glances at Anna, who appears to be making some kind of elaborate list on her phone. Finally, during a blessed lull in the morning rush, I make myself a triple shot vanilla latte (because apparently, I'm going to need the caffeine for whatever Anna has planned) and slide into the chair across from her.
"Okay," Anna says, not even looking up from her phone. "First things first: What kind of story are you thinking of writing?"
"I don't know? Maybe something about—"
"A romance," she interrupts, finally looking up with a knowing smirk. "It's definitely going to be a romance."
“That’s what I—“
"Romance is good!" Anna continues, scrolling through something on her phone. "Romance readers on Wattpad are super engaged. They comment on everything, they make fan art, they—oh my god, they're going to love your writing style."
"My writing style that thirty-three agents have rejected?"
"Those agents are reading for the traditional market. Wattpad is different. It's more... immediate. More raw. More—"
"More what?"
"More fun," she says simply. "Okay, here's what you need to know about Wattpad." She holds up her phone, displaying a bullet-pointed list that looks longer than my last rejection letter. "First: Update regularly. Like, at least once a week. Readers hate waiting too long between chapters."
"Once a week?" My voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky. "But what about editing and revising and—"
"Second," she continues, ignoring my minor panic attack, "engage with your readers. Reply to comments. Maybe even make a Pinterest board for your characters. Readers eat that stuff up."
"A Pinterest board? Anna, I barely have time to—"
"Third: Don't be afraid to be tropey. Enemies to lovers? Yes. Friends to lovers? Hell yes. Fake dating? Give it to me. Coffee shop romance? I mean, you literally work in one, so..."
I glance around Power Beans, losing myself in the vastness of my mind, like I mostly do. After a few seconds, I glance back at Anna.
"You know what?" I say, pulling out my phone and opening the Wattpad app. "I think I have an idea."
Anna stands up, gathering her things. "Of course you do. You've probably had one brewing since yesterday." She shoulders her camera bag—a habit she's picked up from spending too much time with Aaron. "Now, I have to go photograph engagement photos for a couple who met on Twitter, of all places. The internet's a weird and wonderful thing, Charlotte Hayes. Maybe it's time you found out just how wonderful it can be."
The bell chimes as she leaves, and I open a new document on my phone, but before I can type a single word, Zoe's voice cuts through my creative haze.
"Charlotte! I need backup!" She's juggling three drink orders at once, her usually perfect eyeliner slightly smudged from the steam. "The morning rush isn't over yet!"
Right. Real life. The one where I'm still a barista who needs to pay rent, not a future literary sensation. I tuck my phone away, but the ideas keep swirling in my mind as I make my way back behind the counter.
The next two hours pass in a blur of steam wands and syrup pumps, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm thinking about character arcs while I sprinkle cinnamon on lattes, plotting story beats while I restock cups, and mentally drafting dialogue as I wipe down tables. It's like someone has turned a key in my brain, unlocking a door I didn't even know was locked.
"You're humming," Zoe points out during a rare quiet moment. She's reorganizing the pastry case, which mostly means hiding the slightly stale items in the back. "And smiling. It's kind of creeping me out."
"Am I not allowed to be happy?"
"Not during the morning shift," she says. "Seriously, what's got you all..." she waves a hand at my general being, "...sparkly?"
I hesitate. Telling people about my writing has always felt like jinxing it somehow. Like if I talk about it too much, the fragile bubble of creativity will pop. But maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe keeping it all locked up is why I keep hitting walls.
"I'm starting a new story," I say. "On this platform called Wattpad."
"Oh my god," Zoe's eyes widen. "My little sister is obsessed with Wattpad. She's always talking about this one story—something about a girl who can see how many times people have had their heart broken? It's, like, huge apparently."
And just like that, another piece of the puzzle clicks into place in my mind. A character forms: a twenty-six-year-old barista who's sworn off dating after a string of terrible relationships, only to find herself falling for the one customer who never orders the same drink twice. A guy who seems determined to try every possible combination on the menu, bringing chaos to her perfectly organized world. The idea hits me with such force that I actually gasp, which makes Zoe jump and nearly drop a blueberry muffin.
"Sorry," I say, already reaching for my phone. "I just need to write something down really quick—"
"Incoming," Zoe warns, nodding toward the door.
The bell chimes, and in walks Marcus. Marcus, with his perfectly styled dark brown hair, his startup-casual outfit, and his ability to completely derail my entire day just by existing. At thirty-one, he carries himself with that particular brand of tech-bro confidence that comes from being just successful enough to be arrogant about it. His grey eyes, which I once thought looked stormy and mysterious, now just look cold and distant. He's carrying his leather messenger bag—the one I got him for Christmas—and wearing the half-smile that used to make my heart do backflips but now just makes my stomach turn.
"Charlotte," he says, like he's surprised to see me. At my workplace. Where I've worked for the past three years. Where he used to come see me every morning before work, until he decided he "wasn't ready for anything serious" with me but was apparently ready for everything serious with Rebecca from his coding team.
"What can I get for you?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds. Professional. Detached. Like I'm not imagining him dragging a whole set of Louis Vuitton emotional baggage behind him in my story.
"The usual," he says, like we're still in that space where he has a usual, where I remember his order by heart, where I care enough to make it exactly the way he likes it.
"I'm sorry," I say, and I'm surprised to find that I actually mean it. Not sorry for him, but sorry for the version of me that used to have his order memorized, that used to light up when he walked in, that used to think he was the ending to her story. "You'll have to remind me of your order. We get a lot of customers."
His face does something complicated, a mix of surprise and what might be hurt, though I remind myself I lost the right to interpret his expressions when he updated his relationship status without telling me. Behind me, Zoe makes a sound that might be a suppressed snort.
"Right," he says, shifting his weight. The messenger bag bumps against his hip. "Uh, a medium vanilla latte, extra hot, with oat milk and an extra shot."
I punch it into the register, deliberately not thinking about how I used to tease him about being basic despite his complicated order. "Name for the order?"
Now he definitely looks hurt. "Charlotte..."
"That'll be $6.75," I say, and then, because I can't help myself, "How's Rebecca?"
He blinks, caught off guard. "We aren’t together anymore. Actually, that's kind of why I—"
"Your drink will be ready at the end of the bar," I cut him off, turning to start on his latte. I can feel him hovering, wanting to say more, but I focus on the familiar motions: steaming the milk, pulling the shots, measuring the syrup.
When I set his drink on the counter, he tries one more time. "I've been thinking about you, Char. I was wondering if maybe we could—"
"Your drink is ready," I say, and then turn to the next customer with a bright smile. "Hi! What can I get started for you today?"
I feel Marcus lingering for a moment longer before he finally takes his drink and leaves. The bell chimes again, and just like that, he's gone. My hands are shaking slightly, but not from seeing him. They're shaking because I suddenly can't wait to get home and start writing.
Because this—all of this—is exactly what I need to put into my story. The real stuff. The way it feels to see someone who used to be your whole world and realize they're now just another customer. The way you can memorize someone's coffee order but still not really know them at all. The way love can be both bitter and sweet, like the perfect cup of coffee.
I pull my phone out during my break and open the Wattpad app. My fingers hover over the keyboard for just a moment before I start typing:
Chapter 1
The thing about working in a coffee shop is that everyone's just passing through. Even the regulars—the ones whose orders you know by heart, the ones who smile and chat and treat you like a person instead of a coffee-dispensing machine—they're still just visiting your life for the length of time it takes to make their drink.
But sometimes, someone walks in who makes you wish they'd stay.
"That's really good," Zoe says from over my shoulder, making me jump. "Like, really good."
I look up at her, surprised. "Yeah?"
She shrugs, already moving back to the counter. "Just don't make me a character in your story. Or if you do, at least give me better tips." She pauses, then adds, "And maybe a love interest who isn't terrible."
I laugh, but my mind is already racing ahead to the next scene, the next chapter, the next possibility. I take a deep breath of coffee-scented air and start typing again.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
