The Wrong Name

I still order two coffees. One with his name on the cup.

It's a small café near my uni. I go every morning, and every morning, the barista, Tom, asks, "Name?" And every morning I say "Hannah" for my cup.

And then, because my mouth is a traitor, I say, "And one for Dev."

Dev was my boyfriend for two years. He took his coffee with oat milk and two sugars, which I teased him for, because it's basically a dessert. We'd walk to lectures together, split a pastry, and he'd steal the last bite.

We split in the spring. He moved to Bristol for a graduate job. We said we'd stay friends, which is what you say when you can't say anything else.

I know I should stop. I'm paying £3.80 for a coffee I leave on a bench for strangers. It's the world's saddest charity.

This morning Tom hesitated. Cup in hand. Pen hovering.

"Same again?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, flat. "Hannah. And Dev."

He smiled this weird little smile, turned the cup around, and handed it to me.

I looked down.

Underneath my name, a tiny addition. Not Tom's handwriting. A message, written in small neat pen.

"Don't stop. I'll be there Thursday. x"

I looked at Tom.

"He was here yesterday," he said quietly. "Asked me to pass it on."

I'd been ordering for a ghost.

He'd been on the way back.