Page 2 of Born in Fire

A leaf pattern for the woman in the gray suit. A heart for the older gentleman who always tips generously. A rosetta for the marketing team ordering six drinks at once. My hands remain steady even when the line grows. I’m new to this place, which gives me a reason to keep my mind on my work instead of… anything else.

“That’s amazing,” a man in a blue tie says as I hand him his cappuccino with a perfect fern design. “You’re an artist.”

“Thank you.” I place his change on the counter rather than in his outstretched hand. “Next, please.”

The morning passes in a blur of orders. During a brief lull, I restock cups, my movements efficient. The café has become a sanctuary of sorts—structured, predictable, filled with people yet allowing me to maintain distance.

“Did you see the news about that plane crash in Colorado?” a customer asks his companion at a nearby table.

My hands freeze on the stack of cup sleeves. A roaring fills my ears, drowning out his next words. Suddenly, I’m standing in a funeral home, Tyler’s arm around my shoulders, his grip too tight as he whispers, “It’s just us now, Juno. You need me.”

“Juno?” Lisa’s voice pulls me back. “You okay? You went somewhere else for a minute.”

I blink, finding myself still in the café. “Fine. Just remembered something I forgot to do.”

She doesn’t push, and gratitude warms my chest. During our shared shifts over the past couple of weeks, Lisa has learned to read my signals. She steps in when male customers linger too long at the counter. She never asks why I check my phone with such trepidation. She doesn’t comment when I decline invitations to after-work drinks.

The mid-morning lull gives me a chance to sketch new cup designs in my small notebook. The pencil moves across the page, creating intricate patterns that might work in foam. Drawing has always cleared my mind, even when painting became too difficult after—

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Not a call this time, but a text from the front desk security.

Delivery for Juno Ashford at Grind & Bean Coffee.

My stomach drops.

“I need to check something,” I tell Lisa, walking on unsteady legs to the lobby.

The security desk has a vase of white lilies. My mother’s favorite. The card sits in a small envelope with my name written in familiar handwriting.

“Who delivered these?” I ask, voice tight.

“Florist courier,” Ed says. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s fine.” Another lie. I take the vase with steady hands, though my insides tremble. Back in the staff room, I open the card.

Juno – Thinking of you as the anniversary approaches. They would be proud of who you’ve become. I miss you. We should talk. – T.

The lilies blur as tears threaten. He remembers the date of my parents’ death. Of course he does. He uses it like a key to a door I’ve tried to lock.

I find myself in the bathroom, card crumpled in my fist. My reflection shows dilated pupils, cheeks flushed. I’m picking at my cuticles again, the skin around my thumbnail already raw.

Breathe.

Focus on five things you can see.

The white sink. The soap dispenser. The paper towel holder. The gray tile floor.

My hands shake slightly.

Four things you can touch.

Cold water over my wrists. The rough paper towel. The smooth surface of my phone as I pull it out. The screen as I type a message to my therapist requesting an emergency session.

Three things you can hear.

Water running. Someone walking past the bathroom. My own breathing, steadying now.

Two things you can smell.

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