Burnt Coffee Courage

I used to think courage was loud. That it announced itself with grand gestures and bold

declarations. But real courage, I learned, tastes like burnt coffee on a Wednesday

morning when you show up anyway. There was this bookstore three blocks from my apartment.

Peeling paint, crooked shelves, a cat named Hemingway who judged everyone. I started going

there after everything fell apart. After I realized the person I'd built my life around had

quietly been dismantling theirs, and mine got caught in the rubble. The owner never

asked questions. Just slid the same mug across the counter every time. Chipped blue ceramic

with a faded lighthouse on it. I'd sit in the corner pretending to read while actually just