Connor set the steaming mug on the counter.

"Alana!"

He called, turning to start the next order.

This was how most of his days flew by, save for the ones he had off, in a blur of caffeine-induced highs and whipped cream.

He glanced over at the guys setting up the lighting and microphones for poetry night, which happened on wednesdays.

Connor loved poetry night, and always asked for that shift, though he would never have admitted it.

Maybe it was leftover paranoia from living with his hyper-masculine father, maybe it was something else, but he pretended to hate it all the same.

Poetry night had an average sized group, maybe twenty people, though only about half of them read on stage.

He got that, he would never have read his own poety aloud, mostly he just scribbled down thoughts on bits of paper; nothing profound, just chicken-scratch on napkins that he used on his breaks.

He always threw them away when he got off his break, he wanted nobody to see them.

He set the next steaming mug on the counter.

"Evan!"

Connor called, already starting on the next order.

He turned to grab something off the ordering counter and froze.

His first thought was that the boy grabbing the mug had the prettiest eyes Connor had ever seen.

He shook his head, clearing away his thoughts as the boy turned away.

Connor hadn't seen this boy before, but he was sure that he was in the cafe for poetry night.

He wondered briefly what kind of poetry he was into, then smacked himself internally.

"Quit it, you dipshit."

He muttered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

He checked his watch.

His break was in a few minutes, so he hurried the next order, setting it on the counter so quickly it almost spilled.

"Carly!"

He called, untying his apron and hanging it up.

Pulling his hair into a loose bun, he grabbed his drink and sat down at a table.

He grabbed a napkin and started writing, mostly nonsense, but this kind of word vomit was one of the few things his therapist had taught him that had actually accomplished anything.

He'd started seeing Dr. Carol when he was ten, and had kept with her until he'd left at seventeen.

Most of what she'd taught him was shit, things his parents had told her to do to "help" him, but the few slivers of actually helpful advise had stuck into his twenties.

He had a habit of internalising every emotion, every thought, to the point where he would go weeks and be fine, until he finally reached a boiling point and suddenly exploded on everyone around him.

This eventually lead him to losing several jobs, all of his friends, even his family, though that wasn't completely his fault.

But these short scribbles and chicken-scratch helped to get some of his emotions out, and throwing them away afterwards made him feel better.

Connor was so focused on writing that she jumped out of his skin when he heard someone speak

"What are you doing?"

A soft voice asked, pulling him away from his thoughts.

He crumpled the napkin in one hand, shoving it into his pocket casually and looking up to see who'd spoken, and found himself staring into a pair of warm brown eyes.

His heart skipped a beat when he realised it was the boy from the counter - Evan, he remembered.

Evan smiled, gesturing with his hand to the seat across from Connor, who nodded and sat still as the other boy sat down on the opposite side of the booth.

Connor wasn't one to start a conversation with people, about half the reason he had almost no friends, so he sat, waiting for Evan to speak.

"What were you doing?"

He asked again, fiddling with his fingers on the wooden table.

Connor blinked before responding.

"Uh - I'm out of milk, I was just writing a note."

Evan nodded.

"Milk."

He echoed thoughtfully

Connor nodded back, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

After a moment of awkward silence, Connor started fidgeting with a packet of sugar.

"A-are you here for poetry night?"

He asked, nodding towards the stage, which now held a couple of mics.

Evan nodded.

"Yeah I have a friend who reads, he asked me to come."

He stopped fidgeting with his fingers and set them at his sides as if he'd just realised he was doing it.

"Jared. Kleinman."

He added after a minute.

Connor knew him.

He was a regular, and the kind of person that only read poetry that he'd written about

"His women"

He called them.

He was also rather obnoxious and loud, which Connor generally hated, so he'd never talked to the guy.

"Yeah, Jared."

He replied, nodding.

Evan nodded back.

After another awkward silence during which Connor regretted every decision he'd made wishing the last hour, Evan stood up to go.

"Do you write?"

Connor blurted out, desperate to keep him.

Evan smiled, an amused expression on his face.

"Nah, I don't even really like poetry, besides, I couldn't get up on stage."

He smiled again before walking back to where he'd been sitting.

Connor's heart fell a little at that, but he smiled, pulling at the napkin he didn't even realise he'd been messing with.

His phone dinged; his break was over.

He stood up to go back behind the counter, not even realising he'd left the napkin on the table.