Busy Hands, Empty Heart

I work as a barista at this cozy little cafe on the corner. It’s supposed to be my happy place, but lately it feels more like a prison cell. I pour coffee and steam milk all day long, but not once have I tasted any of it myself. Every customer has their own story swirling around them, some are stressed out about work, others are just lonely, seeking human connection in the form of a latte art heart on top of their drink. But there’s no one here for me. No one who knows how to make my heart skip a beat or light up like fireworks on a July night. I’ve tried to talk myself out of these feelings so many times, telling myself that I’m just tired and in need of a change. Maybe it is time to move on from this place where everyone else seems to find solace but me. Yet, every morning when the alarm goes off at 5 AM, my body still hauls itself out of bed to face another day of pouring steaming hot water over grounds and wishing I was anywhere but here.