Chapter 1: The Girl Who Laughed at Funerals*
The rain had been falling for hours, painting the glass windows of Brewline Café in long, tired streaks. It was nearly midnight, and the place had long emptied out—except for her.
She sat in the farthest corner, always the same booth, like it belonged to her. Her name was Liora Graves. She ordered the same drink every night: iced latte, no sugar, even when the weather screamed for hot chocolate. The ice clinked gently against her glass, an oddly cheerful sound for such a grim girl.
I was the night shift barista. Not by passion—just survival. My dreams of writing had long dried up, along with the instant noodles in my cabinet. I brewed coffee like it was medicine and spoke to customers like I had a word quota to keep low.
But Liora… she was different. Not in a "manic pixie dream girl" kind of way. More like… a slow, beautiful disaster. The kind you can't look away from, even when it's clearly heading toward the edge.
"You look like a villain in a sad indie film," she said one night, sipping her iced latte without looking up from her sketchpad.
"Thanks," I replied, unsure if it was an insult or a compliment.
She glanced up. "It's the apron. And the permanent frown. You should try smiling. Might scare the sadness off."
I smirked. "You talk like someone who practices speeches in the mirror."
"I talk like someone who's tired of silence."
That was the first real thing she said to me. Not just coffee talk. Not just sarcasm. Something that felt like it belonged in a diary, or a song no one would ever hear.
Over the next few nights, we formed a rhythm. She'd walk in at 11:30 p.m. sharp, hair damp from the rain, eyes ringed with smudged eyeliner, and order her usual. I'd make it without asking. She never said thank you, but she always left a tip in the form of a story.
"I once faked a seizure to get out of gym class," she told me.
"I believe it," I said.
"You should. I bit my own tongue."
That was the night I realized she wasn't just dark—she was *delightfully* unhinged.
---
She sketched in her notebook between sips. I tried to catch glimpses of the pages. Her drawings were messy, raw—like a soul trying to scream through ink. One page had a heart stitched together with safety pins. Another showed a girl laughing while standing in a grave.
"Let me guess," I said one night. "Art student with a tragic past?"
She tilted her head. "More like dropout with a flair for melodrama."
I raised a brow. "At least you're honest."
"I'm only honest with strangers. Friends lie too much."
I didn't know if that meant I was a stranger or a friend. Or both.
---
The nights passed like scenes from an indie film. Soft music played in the background. The smell of espresso clung to the air like a lover refusing to let go. Outside, the rain fell. Inside, she slowly unfolded.
"I laugh at funerals," she told me once. "Can't help it. It's like my body doesn't know how to grieve properly. It panics and goes into stand-up comedy mode."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. My cousin died last year. Everyone was sobbing, and I was trying not to giggle. The priest thought I was possessed."
"What were you thinking about?"
She smiled. "How he used to snore like a pig. It made me laugh. Then I felt guilty for laughing. So I laughed harder."
She didn't apologize for it. Just shrugged like it was another weird fact about her. Like her love for cold coffee or her fear of red balloons.
---
One night, near closing, she asked, "Why do you work here? You don't seem like a coffee person."
"Because I'm not brave enough to be broke and chase dreams."
She stared at me for a beat. "That's the most depressing thing I've heard all day."
"Then you need to talk to more people."
She leaned forward. "Ever thought about just… disappearing?"
"All the time."
"Same." Her voice softened. "But then I remember I'd probably haunt someone boring, and that would suck."
I laughed. It felt strange—like my face wasn't used to the movement.
She smiled. "See? You don't look half bad when you're not brooding."
"And you don't look half sane when you're not making death jokes."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."
---
By now, I had memorized her drink, her quirks, the exact sound of her laugh when she thought she wasn't supposed to laugh. She never gave her full story, just pieces—like puzzle fragments from different boxes. I didn't know if I wanted to solve her or just hold the pieces gently.
One evening, the café was empty except for us. The air was thick with unsaid things.
She looked up from her sketchpad and said, "If I died right now, what would you remember most about me?"
I blinked. "That's a weird question."
"Answer it."
I paused. "Your laugh. And your weird iced coffee obsession."
She grinned. "Not bad. I'd remember how you always look like you're one bad poem away from a breakdown."
"Fair enough."
We both laughed.
Then she asked quietly, "Would you miss me?"
"Yeah," I said, just as quietly.
"Good," she whispered, "because I might not come tomorrow."
And just like that, she left.
---Thank you for stepping into the quiet chaos of *Midnight Latte*. As the aroma of secrets brews stronger and hearts stir in silence, remember—this is only the beginning. Liora and our unnamed barista have only just begun to peel back the layers they hide behind. Love, grief, and unexpected laughter are about to collide in ways neither of them is ready for. If you've ever fallen for someone at the wrong time—or the wrong someone entirely—then you won't want to miss what comes next. The night is far from over.
*End of Chapter 1*