No Use Crying Over Spilled Coffee
What is fate, if not fiction?
It can be unsettling, to realize that one’s life is left completely up to chance.
In the larger scheme of life, things like fate and destiny are nothing more than flimsy handmade castles in the sand.
Delusions, manufactured by our desire for purpose and order in an otherwise chaotic and nonsensical world.
From the moment we are born through the choices we make,
life only moves forward.
Only always forward.
Never back.
The truth, as harsh as it may seem, is that chance, not fate, governs the world around us in all of its complexities and unpredictability.
This story, however, does not begin with fate bringing two people together, but instead begins with a perfectly timed spilled cup of hot coffee on an otherwise boring and uneventful Tuesday.
The morning commute was a bustling hive of activity as people depressingly and begrudgingly made their way through the city’s mass transit system, trying their best to catch their trains just to barely make it to work on time.
Trains pulled into the station…
Trains pulled out of the station…
Trains pulled into the station…
Over and over.
Day after day.
Trains came and went every few minutes, but the 8 Local train was the fan favorite, operating as the pulsating artery connecting every neighborhood through and around the entire city.
While the other trains ran unpredictably, fluctuating between arriving sometimes early, sometimes late, and scarcely on time, the 8 Local was known for its unyielding respect for the schedule.
You could set your watch to it.
John Parvis’s watch, the time of which was set by the train, buzzed and beeped around his wrist, signaling the start of yet another uneventful day.
He took in a few last moments of peace underneath the warmth and safety of his down alternative comforter before groaning himself out of his sheets.
The orange of the morning sun bled through his half-open blinds as John Parvis sat on the edge of the bed. His feet lay against the cool hardwood floor beneath him while he rubbed the tired out of his eyes.
“Another day,” he said to himself in a dry hoarse voice.
John lived the same exact day,
every day,
every week,
month,
year.
He felt safe in the routine he had built for himself over the years, and today was just another day in the books.
But Tuesdays never treated John quite right.
He hated them.
He hated them more than Mondays, more than any other day of the week.
Tuesdays did a good job reminding John how boring and predictable his life had become.
All of his days blended into one big mix of mundane and solidarity, his life lacking that small spark of spontaneity that people often use to escape their unchanging routines.
Yet, today, as he stepped into the shower, something felt different.
Unfamiliar…
John lingered under the water, longer than usual, letting the cascade of warmth blanket over him. The steam rose in swirls, twirling its way through the air, fogging up the mirror, and seeping into his every pore.
He thought to himself, is this what life is supposed to be?
Time seemed frozen as he stood there, lost in the heat of the water, which made him feel as if somebody was giving him a warm hug, something John had not experienced in a long time.
Long enough that he almost had forgotten the feeling.
It made him feel as if he was loved.
As the final droplets of water trailed down his skin, John reluctantly turned off the shower. The comforting embrace of the heat was replaced by the brisk air of his apartment.
The sharp scent of freshly ground coffee beans greeted him, a stark contrast to the sterile, soapy steam of the shower.
The drip Dr. Caffeine machine living on the countertop hissed and purred while it helped John prepare for the day.
His coffee was a creature of habit, taking the same three sugars and two creams every morning.
John didn't believe in fate, destiny, or red strings.
He believed in logic, order, and routine.
Chance, and how everything could change in an instant.
Just because…
For John Parvis, maintaining his routine, with the same three sugars and two creams, gave him the illusion that he held some sort of control over his own life.
With a last deep inhale, he stepped out into the rhythm of the city, expecting nothing more, or less, than the ordinary.
***
The vibrations of the 8 Local train arriving echoed through the station.
John’s breath was ragged, his footsteps clapping against the marbled floor as he raced against the clock.
“Stupid shower,” he whispered.
The 8 Local was already sighing its imminent departure.
His coffee did a precarious dance in his grasp as he weaved through the crowd of people who, apparently, had nowhere else to be.
With his eyes fixed on the train’s open doors, through his tunnel vision, he never saw her coming.
An eruption of hot coffee and scattered belongings marked the spot where their worlds collided in a moment of chaotic chance.
“Watch where you’re going!” they both shouted simultaneously, locking eyes for a moment before kneeling down on the ground to play Pick Up Belongings.
A jigsaw of their lives laid bare amidst the morning rush. Papers fluttered like lost birds, a notebook skittered across the platform, and the scent of spilled coffee hung in the air.
They exchanged a fleeting look of shared annoyance and disbelief, his brown eyes looking into her ocean blues, their voices echoing off the station walls as they scrambled to collect their scattered lives.
“Now I’m going to be late for work,” John spoke in frustration, immediately feeling a small pang of guilt that he made the situation about him.
“Well, now I’m wearing your coffee like an accessory, so,” she said, sorting through the loose paper on the ground with a haste that matched her rising irritation.
John glanced at his watch, a brave survivor of the collision.
“The train is already gone,” she answered the question he didn’t ask.
His gaze shot in her direction before sarcastically telling her, “I can see that, with my own eyes.”
Her body tensed, an unexpected smile tugging at her lips. With a gentle sweep of her hand, she pushed a few unruly strands of hair behind her ear.
“I just need my notebook,” she told him, fighting the smile on her face.
It had been a while, too long, since anything made Clara Mori crack any sort of smile.
Growing up in a household where laughter was a rare guest, she learned to navigate the world with a quiet grace. Her smiles were mostly reserved for moments that truly moved her.
In her world, she valued the power of silence and observation, considering small talk to be a temporary distraction from the inevitable void.
And yet, the man who drenched Clara in a coffee, with three sugars and two creams, managed to break through her well-constructed barriers. Forcing a smile that was unbidden and genuine, a rare artifact in the museum of her expressions.
Clara hated the feeling.
John’s fingers closed around a leather-bound notebook, its edges stained with coffee. The book had fallen open to a page filled with elegant handwriting, a glimpse into Clara’s private world.
Before he could make out more than a few words, Clara’s hand darted out, snatching the notebook from John’s hands with a swiftness that took him by surprise, forcing them both to rise to their feet.
“Sorry,” she said, a hint of embarrassment coloring her tone, “it’s private.”
John held his hands in the air, almost as if to surrender, “I didn’t see anything.”
Clara clutched the notebook to her chest, the leather still warm from the coffee, with three sugars and two creams.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes no longer meeting his.
Her heart was pounding like a drum in her chest, each beat echoing her mounting dread. The notebook was her silent confidant, a safety deposit box for the chaos of her mind, and now it felt as though, to her, its pages were flung open for the world to see.
“Listen, I’m really sorry about this,” John said, trying to cut through the gaps in time.
Her eyes snapped up. "Don’t use the word ‘really.’ You’re either sorry, or you’re not.”
John arched his eyebrows slightly, forming a silent theater of surprise above his eyes.
“Oh, I didn’t realize this was the no adverb area of the station,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “really sorry about that.”
Clara’s grip on the notebook relaxed slightly and it somehow felt a little lighter in her hands. “Maybe they should put up a sign,” she joked.
Her eyes remained fixed on a point just over John’s shoulder, as if she could see the words from her notebook dancing around him.
“You know, they really should,” John responded, trying his best to be clever, succeeding.
“Well, at least your coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn,” she muttered, her comment hung in the air, mingling with the steam from John’s lukewarm coffee, with three sugars and two creams.
As if on cue, the distant sound of a train horn pierced the morning calm or rather, the morning chaos.
John glanced at his watch and then back at Clara.
“I think that’s our cue,” he said, nodding towards the sound, “right on time.”
Her smile slightly faded, almost as if she were disappointed that the next train was already pulling in to take them on their way.
“After you,” he continued, motioning his hand toward the platform to allow Clara to lead the way.
With a mutual smile, they began walking towards the train platform. The hustle of the commuting crowd gathered around them, each person competing to be the very first one to board the train, as if there was a reward for doing so.
As John and Clara waited among them, they found themselves side by side on the platform. Their anticipation of the approaching train mirrored the unexpected curiosity sparked between them.
The 8 Local’s platform was somehow both crowded and empty at the same time, at least for John it felt emptier than it was.
Something about the girl standing next to him made him feel as if, in that moment, the rest of the world no longer existed.
And John Parvis barely knew Clara Mori.
Strangers, among the rest of them.
The train’s arrival broke their daydreams with a gust of wind following in tow.
They turned in unison to watch the cars passing by, but John’s eyes shifted to Clara, her profile etched against the backdrop of the train in motion.
People began to swarm around them as the train came to a halt, a tide of humanity that annoyed them to their core.
The doors slid open, and they found themselves hesitating to step inside, but only for a moment.
As the crowd made their collective way into the train, John and Clara were swept inside with the rest of them.
John, caught in the flow, reached out to steady himself against a pole, his hand brushing against the cold metal.
He looked up, searching for Clara among the other riders.
The dim lighting in the car cast shadows on the worn-out seats, their faded colors hinting at countless journeys taken.
He found her, a few feet away, settled into a corner seat, while she clutched her notebook tightly against her chest.
As the train jolted into motion, the cityscape slid by in a silent film of sunrise and buildings as Clara leaned her head against the cool glass, her blue eyes unfocused and not seeing the world whizzing past.
Instead, her eyes were turned inward, reflecting a mind adrift in deep thought. The blankness of her stare appeared to be emptiness, but was more a quiet gathering of self, a small break from the noise of existence.
Clara Mori was there, but not present.
A mystery, wrapped in quiet contemplation.
Her mind was…
Lost...
John Parvis observed from further down the car as Clara’s stare held her captive, his own thoughts racing as fast as they could.
His internal struggle was palpable, the ticking of the clock in his mind barely outpacing his racing heartbeat.
He was already late for work, which for John was not something that happened often.
In fact, it wasn’t something that happened ever.
If there was an award for perfect attendance and punctuality, John would take home the trophy.
But there was no trophy.
No ribbons.
No awards.
Little did John know that his pencil-pushing job wouldn’t care if he died. To them, he was just another number among a pool of numbers that made up the workforce.
If the 8 Local train derailed and crashed, they would be more concerned with John’s work getting done before they even considered how he was or if he was even still alive.
For once, however, work took a backseat through his thoughts, while Clara Mori was riding shotgun right up front.
He had barely glanced the pages of her open notebook as he picked it up off the ground, but even then, it was clear as day.
Her words were written in permanent ink in his mind,
My Suicide Note;
John let out an exhausted sigh. His routine was everything to him, and it was unraveling more and more by the minute.
Without his three-sugared, two-creamed life…
What would be the point?
What was inside the coffee that was her life, he wondered to himself.
Through the whirlwind of thoughts, it finally dawned on him that work would still be there tomorrow, waiting for him.
But this girl might not.
I have to do something, he decided.
The train’s rhythmic sway encouraged their tentative steps toward each other, pushing John closer to Clara with every groove.
It took her a moment to notice him standing in front of her. His hands were at his sides, open and unguarded, and his pale face blended in with the rest of the commuters.
Clara looked up at him, her expression softening as she realized.
“I think I owe you a coffee,” he broke the ice that had already been broken on the platform they left behind.
She blinked in surprise at his words, her face warmer than she was used to.
Am I seriously blushing, she thought, for real?
“Well, I’m already drenched in yours,” she said, refreshing his memory, wearing an almost hidden smirk on her face.
A wave of embarrassment shot its way around John’s body as he shifted uncomfortably where he stood, his eyes darting to the floor.
He had not expected her to be so quick and unapologetically bold. Clara was somehow already unlike anyone he had met before, and he found himself both intrigued and concerned.
John cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, “Right,” he stammered, “I supposed I walked right into that one-”
“The way you walked right into me,” she interrupted.
His cheeks felt flush, mirroring the warmth of his coffee that had painted Clara, “I’d really just like to buy you a coffee.” he told her, trying to be playful.
Her eyes lingered over him with crinkled eyebrows, “Isn’t this stranger danger or something?”
John let out an involuntary chuckle, realizing he needed to play his cards exactly right, or at least better.
He inhaled a deep breath of fresh, stale train car air and hesitated for just a moment before finally saying, “When you’re telling this story, don’t you want to be able to say you got off the train and let stranger danger buy you a coffee?”
Clara turned her head away from him, peering out the train window, considering her options.
She felt herself slowly falling in love with his words, heavily against her will.
Not as if I have anywhere else to be, she reminded herself in the privacy of her own head before turning back to him, “I’d like to RSVP yes to this party.”
Their worlds had collided with the force of their mutual haste, and it didn’t take much to bring them together.
If John didn’t take as long of a shower…
If the 8 Local train wasn’t a slave to its schedule…
If Clara hadn’t burned her toast earlier that morning…
Sometimes it really is just the one thing.
Some would call it fate, a cosmic alignment of stars that brought John Parvis and Clara Mori together just when they needed each other.
They’d say it was written in the constellations or some other nonsense, like Mercury was in retrograde.
But in truth, it was pure chance, the serendipity of right place, right time.
Insignificant moments of chance converging into something remarkable.
There are no written rules among the stars,
Life just is…
And it always will be.
Clara’s smirk eased into a genuine smile, “I’m Clara, by the way,” she told him, extending her hand for a handshake.
His hand grabbed hers, lingering for longer than necessary, no longer strangers among the rest of them.
“John,” he said, returning her smile.
