Another shift at Shang-Java.

  Another day where nothing catastrophic happens, which I’m starting to recognize as a skill.

  I clock in, tie the apron, slide into place behind the bar like this has always been my life. Evan’s already there, talking too fast about finals and caffeine tolerance like it’s a competition. Cassie’s perched on the counter sketching in the margins of a receipt, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Melanie’s in back, boots planted, arms crossed—watching all of us like she’s counting exits.

  Nobody looks at me twice.

  Nobody knows who I am.

  That still feels unreal. Good unreal. Like getting away with something.

  The morning rush hits in waves. Milk steaming, cups clinking, orders stacking up. People want sweetness. People want comfort. Everyone wants their coffee to lie to them a little.

  Then the ticket prints.

  Vanilla. Cinnamon. Latte.

  My body reacts before my brain does.

  The steam wand hisses and the scent blooms—warm, intimate, invasive. Vanilla first, soft and clean. Cinnamon underneath, sharper, skin-close. It hits the back of my throat like a memory I didn’t consent to.

  That’s Auré.

  Not perfume. Not effort. Soap.

  The kind she used after a shower. The kind that clung to her skin instead of her clothes. The kind that made it impossible to tell where the scent ended and she began.

  My hand stills just long enough for Melanie to notice.

  “Earth to Tag,” she says, calm but pointed.

  I blink, swallow, recover. I always recover.

  I finish the drink and slide it across the counter like nothing just happened. Cassie leans in as the customer walks away.

  “That smells really good,” she says, easy, kind.

  “Yeah,” I say. Neutral. Safe.

  My body does not agree with that assessment.

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  On break, I make the same drink for myself.

  Vanilla. Cinnamon. Whole milk.

  I take it to the back like it’s contraband and sit on the folding chair near the storage shelves, knees pressed together, cup warm in my hands. Evan’s already back there, scrolling through his phone, earbuds dangling around his neck.

  “You ever listen to Hard Candy Paranoia?” he asks suddenly. “Like, early stuff. Before everything went weird.”

  I pause. Of course he does.

  “Yeah,” I say. “They were good.”

  “Good?” he scoffs. “Syren Barrett’s voice was unreal. Like—heavenly. Absolute celebrity crush.” He grins, unashamed. “Still is, honestly.”

  I take a sip.

  “On that,” I say carefully, “we agree.”

  Evan perks up. “Right? And the way she just walked off stage during that last show? No explanation? People online say she was cloned. Or kidnapped. Or replaced. There’s this whole thread that says—”

  “Or,” I cut in, too casually, “the fame got to her. She changed her name, dyed her hair, and disappeared out of the country to start over.”

  He blinks. “That’s… dark.”

  I shrug. “Seems practical.”

  He laughs it off, already onto the next theory, but the warmth of the latte slides down my throat and settles low, heavy, familiar in a way that makes my pulse stutter.

  This is the closest I’ll get to tasting Auré.

  The thought lands sharp and undeniable. This is what she tasted like after a shower—cinnamon and vanilla soap clinging to her skin, clean and warm and close. Drinking it feels like standing behind her in the bathroom doorway, steam curling around her shoulders, pretending I wasn’t memorizing everything because I didn’t know how temporary we were.

  Heat pools fast and embarrassing.

  I shift in the chair, press my thighs together harder than necessary, curse under my breath. I am very aware of my body in a way I do not appreciate. I take another sip like that might help.

  It doesn’t. It makes it worse.

  I’m soaked.

  There’s no poetic way around it. My body is reacting like it recognizes her even when my brain is screaming not now. I stare at the concrete floor and focus on breathing, on the hum of the fridge, on anything except the way my skin feels too tight.

  And of course, I picture her.

  Auré in a white feminist crop top—Come correct, or don’t come.

  Brown hair pulled into a sexy, messy bun that never stayed neat.

  Medium hoop earrings brushing her neck when she laughed.

  Black hooded leather jacket.

  Distressed jeans my hands remember better than I want to admit.

  My grip tightens around the cup.

  Later, I tell myself.

  You can deal with this later.

  The latte is as far as I’m letting it go right now. Heat. Scent. Memory. I swallow slowly, force my breathing to even out, and count to ten like that’s ever stopped me before.

  “This one strong?” Evan asks, glancing at my cup.

  “Yeah,” I say too fast.

  I rinse the cup harder than necessary, like I’m scrubbing something off my hands—or myself—and stand up before my body can embarrass me further.

  Back to work.

  The shift rolls on. A tall Black guy comes in wearing a white hoodie with a brain wrapped in barbed wire and the words Don’t Be A.N.A.L (Always Negatively Analyzing Life) across it. I laugh before I can stop myself. He orders a lavender honey latte with oat milk—specific, intentional. He tips well. Before leaving, he tells me something tells him I’ll need it later. I tell him with an order that detailed, he’d better have tipped good. He grins like he expected nothing less.

  Later, a kinda-cute guy comes in—quiet, polite, accent doing a lot of work without trying. He orders something aggressively bitter. No sugar. No softness. I clock it immediately. Most people want comfort. He wants honesty or punishment.

  I make it. Slide it over.

  Melanie watches me watch him.

  As soon as he leaves, she leans in. “You gonna ring him up again,” she murmurs, “or just undress him with your eyes?”

  I choke on a laugh. “I was not—”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says, smirking.

  Evan suddenly finds the counter deeply fascinating. His jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable. Cassie pretends not to notice, which somehow makes it worse.

  No one knows who I am.

  But they’re starting to notice who I look at.

  After my shift, I walk to Dr. Elson’s office with cinnamon and vanilla still ghosting my tongue, my body finally cooling down but not forgetting.

  I tell him I won’t be homeless much longer.

  I tell him I’m moving in with an old friend.

  I tell him she betrayed me once.

  I tell him I love her anyway.

  I don’t use names.

  I don’t lie.

  I just aim the truth carefully.

  He listens longer than usual, then says, “Forgiveness and love aren’t opposites. They’re the same act—just pointed in different directions.”

  I write it down.

  I don’t tell him which direction I’ve chosen.

  I don’t tell him how intoxicating it is to be unseen.

  I don’t tell him what cinnamon and vanilla do to me.

  I don’t tell him what I plan to reclaim.

  You’re probably wondering about the interview.

  I’ll come back to that next entry.

  I've got shit to move.