Butterfly Bandage, But Don’t Worry

“Coffee with milk.” You’d called, fighting with the plastic lid as you pried it over the cardboard corners. You’d passed it out to whatever hand reached for it first, glanced up politely, mind preoccupied with the next order until recognition derailed your rhythm.

“Oh, hey Peter.” A casual, polite hello. A nod to an acquaintance. A friendly smile. “How’ve you been?” A perfectly normal thing to say to a classmate. An unobtrusive, socially acceptable remark.

Or so you’d thought.

The gratitude tumbling out from his mouth was cut short, and he chocked on the rushed thank you so much! As he reached out for his order. His entire body grew still, like he’d been isolated in a pocket of time. Frozen. His muscles locked up, his eyes widened, and his fingers hovered over yours, close enough to feel the heat emanating through the cardboard. As he blinked slowly, pulling himself back into the present, something painful flashed through his expression. It was instantaneous, barely noticeable, but your smile turned cautious.

You waited, coffee extended between you like peace offering, until the silence became unsettling. Your eyes flitted from the man before you to the line of customers growing behind him.

Had you said something wrong?

He mustn’t recognise you. Surely school hadn’t been that long ago…Was it only you that remembered the quiet, smart, nervous boy who always saved a hello or goodbye for you each day? You’d shared a project together in your last year, hadn’t you?

“Sorry.” You began, conscious of yourself, the queue, and his evident discomfort. “I didn’t mean to-sorry. Your drink.” You presented the little cup again, as if maybe he hadn’t noticed it the first time, and felt his fingers flex over yours.

He was trembling.

Beneath the harsh lights of the coffee shop his wide-eyes seemed bug-like. He took the cup, but didn’t withdraw, and his lips parted and pressed together like he was trying to say something.

“Are you feeling alright?” You ask.

“What did you just say?” It came out as a pant. Almost a whisper. Though the urgency was sharp.

Someone behind him cleared their throat irritably. You glanced over his shoulder and started to feel hot under the scrutiny of the collective stares as they waited for you. Exchanging your weight, you looked at the little ticket with his order - one regular coffee, additions: milk - and stressed your lip.

“I asked if you were alright.” Suddenly conscious of yourself, your voice, and the way he stared at you like he was close to tears, you weren’t sure what else to say.

“Before that.” Peter said.

“Um…Coffee with milk?” You looked at the little cup as if it had the answer, searching for a grasp of whatever it was he wanted to hear. His stare was unrelenting.

The line behind him was getting longer, bunching at the door so much that the little bell had stopped ringing, instead propped open by the bodies crowded there. As much as it was nice to see a familiar face, clearly just for you, it was coiling your nerves. Each huff, each glower, every tsk that hissed out from behind your old classmate made your chest tighten apprehensively. You were going to get in trouble soon. You were sure of it. You itched to move on.

“No-“ Peter shook his head. The wobble in his voice startled you. He sounded…pained. Desperate. You looked back at him, brows curved, and rolled your lips together. He seemed close to tears.

“…your name?”

“Yes.” Peter gasped, grip visibly tightening on the flimsy cup caged by his palm. Your gaze flicked between the paper and his face. His eyes were rimmed with red, lips parted with anticipation. Buckling under the intensity of his stare, you glanced away.

“…Peter?” You offered weakly, unsure what else you’d possibly said in the few words you’d given him, until a voice cut through the strings of your conversation, and jolted you back to life.

“Excuse me, how long’s my drink gonna be?”

“Sorry.” You gushed, snatching a paper cup, a ticket, and snapping your attention to the next customer. “Y-yes, just a minute.” You rambled, and turned your head back to Peter, who washed his eyes over you like he was seeing you for the first time. “Sorry-“ you started, but you weren’t certain exactly what for. “Sorry if…if I did something. Feel better, okay?” You moved to the ticket, and then to the row that had appeared beside you. You didn’t have another moment to spare. “I’ll see you later, Peter.”

I’ll see you later, Peter.

The last thing you’d said before turning back to your station. Five simple, normal words. He’d heard them a thousand times. But that had been before. Now, they were words that cracked him open and punctured his lungs, like he’d been unable to breathe in the time since anyone had known his name.

He was washed out by the wave of customers moving from the store. The bell above his head chimed again like an alarm trying to drag him from a dream.

Through the glass, he watched you. Coffee, milk, repeat. Mundane, routine, and completely oblivious to his turmoil. Peter glanced at the paper cup, the liquid warm now instead of hot, and exhaled loudly through his nose. The traffic on the sidewalk dislodged him, and he was swept by the stream to his apartment, where he climbed onto the fire escape. He sat his coffee on the railing and watched it, like it might say his name all over again. It remained untouched, as if drinking it would pour away whatever impossible thing had just happened and leave him alone and forgotten all over again.

He hadn’t realised quite how little he’d existed until now. Each day without his name he’d faded a little more. It was like his soul was evaporating. Piece by piece, until only his suit remained and no boy inside to wear it.