Lost Rhythm

Alongside the chatter and small gusts of wind from the door, tendrils of freshly brewed coffee fill the atmosphere. The paintings that hang across my table stare at me while I cup my drink with two hands, cold from the ice transferring to the middle of my palms. 

I take a sip of my maple hazelnut latte, and a bitter taste turns sweet, coating my tongue, lingering in the back of my throat. 

Sitting next to me is a young man carrying weariness with the faint shadows under his bloodshot eyes. I slightly turn my head and see his screen split into two: the left half, his meeting room, and the right half, his compiler. As he speaks to the left side, to another man, no older than him, he hastily types, every command quickly accumulating into hundreds of long lines of code on the other side of the screen. The remnants of his fully finished coffee – a creased plastic cup filled with ice– sit next to his laptop. He reaches for it, drinking every last drop he can get. I imagine his future. Not much longer, he will drop out of college with two classmates and become the co-founder of a start-up, surviving off six months’ savings from his internship the summer before. It will eventually turn into a booming company that will reach the headlines and proclaim him as the next youngest billionaire. He initiates his own philanthropy, speaks at top universities, inspiring the next generation, and his product is used globally – everyone wonders how they once lived in a world without it.

For a long time, I desperately dreamed of his future. Beat, beat, beat – my heart quickening, reminding me of that dream I will never catch. 

Click! Then a flash of light follows. I’m suddenly intrigued again, this time, by a young teenager taking photos of her food on a digital camera. She looks down, painstakingly examining the photo taken, and her eyebrows knit together in disappointment. Leaning in, she carefully adjusts her frame, nudging the plate to the right and moving her utensils out of the way. Light flashes again, and she looks at her camera, then proudly smiles. Later, she’ll meticulously edit this photo and add it to the many others she’s taken, curating a perfect post for the internet to see. Her account will blow up, followers and views growing like an infection. She will find a passion in sharing her journey through photos and videos, forgetting her life before fame. 

Fame. Success. Two things I am ashamed to admit I still want. The echoing in my chest grows from this silent confession, every beat heavier than the last. 

My gaze shifts and turns to an elderly couple that comes into my frame of view. The man holds a mug with a teabag and a lemon slice hanging out of it, while the woman holds a cup of coffee. They met at a college lecture, and ever since then, they’ve been inseparable like the scents of chamomile tea and espresso that mix, wafting into the air every morning. After college, they both worked nine-to-five until they realised that it wasn’t the way they wanted to live. They pushed themselves until they were both promoted to a remote position – one that allowed them to travel the world without a hurry. In the Safari, they go on a tour, standing inches away from lions, riding on elephants, and feeding rhinos, wilderness and the damp Earth clinging onto the soft winds. They walk the streets of night markets under bright lights, the incense of new stories and memories swallowing them whole. On holidays, they return home and visit this coffee shop; the familiar faces and smells fondly carry them back to their past.

Traveling is what I promised my parents we would do someday– an insignificant gift for their sacrifices, yet it seems so unreachable and distant, thousands of miles away.

I look down at my own hands, still cupping my drink. I take a sip, and it tastes watered down. My eyes squeeze shut, and I concentrate. I try to imagine my own future, but see nothing– like water spilt on a page, ink washed away before words can settle on paper. Shame claws up my throat. My mind is hazy, overtaken by my heartbeat loudly, violently pounding against my ribs, lost in a rhythm like a maze with shifting walls – reminding me that I amount to nothing more than flesh and bone.