Page 140 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

I took a quick selfie. Breathed in. Held it. And then let it go.

Then I went in.

Inside, everything opened up. High ceilings stretched upward like the space refused to feel small—exposed pipes and beams painted in deep green, industrial but softened by warm light. An entire wall of glass let the morning pour in without asking permission with trees swaying outside the windows.

And then there were the colors. Yellow, bold and unapologetic, cutting through the space in curved lights and mismatched chairs that shouldn’t have worked, but did. Blue benches lined one side, smooth and clean, like they were made for long conversations you didn’t plan on having.

The low hum of coffee machines, milk steaming, quiet conversations layered over soft music—it all blended into something steady and grounding.

Behind the long counter, baristas moved like they knew exactly what they were doing—precise, practiced. There was something almost hypnotic about it. Even the coffee here had a personality.

I glanced at the menu on the iPad, not really reading it.

Brunch plates. Coffee I didn’t drink. Names that sounded like they belonged in a different city but somehow made sense here.

Everything about this place felt curated. Designed. And I understood why people liked it.

It wasn’t just a brunch spot. It was a moment.

Couples. Friends. People laughing too loud for ten in the morning. Someone typing on a laptop like they had their life together. Someone else taking photos of their food before touching it.

It felt full.

And yet, there it was again. That quiet, familiar tension sitting underneath my skin.

Because no matter how beautiful a place is, it doesn’t soften what you walked in carrying.

I exhaled slowly.

Then my eyes found who they were looking for.

Tucked into the corner, like they always were—Honey at the center of it, Andi beside her, Mel across the table, and Andre leaning back in his chair like he owned the space without trying.

For a second, I thought about turning back.

But then⁠—

“James!” Honey called, her arm already raised.

Heads turned. All of them.

There was no escape.

I forced a smile, lifted a hand in a small wave, like I hadn’t been dodging them for a month. “Hi!” I mouthed, already backing toward the counter.

“I’ll—uh—order first,” I said, pointing vaguely behind me.

A few minutes later, tray in hand, I walked toward them.

Each step felt heavier than it should have.

I set my food down and slid into the empty seat.

“Hi,” I said again, softer this time.

“Hi,” they echoed—almost in unison… too polite.

And then…