smoki eyes, are you feeling good?

You don't even know how long you've been here anymore. Every time you walk through that damn café front door, you return to the same room. Each time, it's as if you'd entered through the opposite door, like the rooms are lined up to infinity. But you know that's not what you're supposed to do, anyway.

Café Arroyo

You know what it's called. The business name is plastered on the window—backwards, to your eyes—Café Arroyo. Some small, clean little place. Probably on a street corner, maybe near a cute neighborhood. You never could tell, the windows only show a blinding white void.

Your eyes flick to the familiar sign hanging from the counter to your right.

"20% OFF ALL PASTRIES!"

You don't have money on you. That isn't the point, either. It just means two. Two loops you've successfully identified. Two times you've correctly decided whether or not this little coffee shop was different or exactly the same. It's usually pretty easy at this point, since you're so familiar with this particular round.

You try to think back to how you got here, but it gets blurrier every time you do. It started on a train, you think.

Or was it a bus?

Whatever. You had fallen asleep. Rookie move, but it was early in the morning. You hadn't expected your new job to ask you to show up at such an hour, but it's not like you were swimming in call-backs.

So when the train jostled to a stop, you shot your eyes open. The windows were so bright, you winced as soon as you looked at them. The people around you acting as if nothing was wrong.

The rest is history. Each room had a different goal. Sometimes it was only three in a row, it's even gone up to 12 before. But right here, right now, you stood in this café. With a thrilling streak of two correct conclusions, you can only assume your goal is ten.

Maybe you need 100% off pastries. Yeah, you could go for a pastry. They look just as fresh and warm as they did the first time you saw them. Which, was probably a while ago. You don't even bother tracking time.

Your eyes track around the small shop, taking in details like a well-oiled machine (if that machine was sleep-deprived and now craving a muffin) and cataloging everything. You scan your eyes up and down, from left to right, like you'd heard lifeguards do.

To your far left, a metal trash can in the corner. A neon sign of a flamingo hands above it, humming and flickering every few seconds. Normal.

Then, there's a large window along the left wall. Nothing behind it, of course, but two small tables next to it. One, the furthest from you, is empty and missing a chair. The other seats a boy with dark blue hair and a black hoodie on, he faces away from you. He traces the rim of his coffee mug, leaning against his fist and keeping his eyes down, almost as if he were trying to hide in the hood.

Like he always does.

Once you've scanned the small tables, your eyes have reached the far wall. There, you see the front door. It's glass, with a large metal handle running along the middle. It has 4 posters on it, but they don't face the inside, so you've never been able to read them. There's a silver bell above the door, only ever ringing when you decide the room is normal.

Then, the right side of the far wall has a booth, tucked into a dip in the layout and a large window sitbehind it, displaying the mirrored painted logo for the cafe. The only reason you know it's name. Two people sit there, opposite sides. One, a young red-haired woman. The other, a boy with a lip piercing and short black hair. They're making small talk with each other quietly, you've assumed it's a first date or something.

Well, not exactly their first. But it's not like you can tell them. They aren't interactable.

At least, that what you've coined it as.

There's always people in the scenes you explore. Sometimes they reply when you speak, sometimes they don't. This particular couple doesn't ever notice your existence. Or, they don't acknowledge it. Either way, you've stopped trying. The booth itself is a bubblegum pink, with a tear in the left seat. All familiar.

Finally, the right side of the room. The counter, the display case, the menu on the wall, and the barista. An almost retro-looking metal display case with a rounded glass front is closest to the back wall. You count one, two, three, six pastries inside. 2 muffins, 3 cupcakes, and a pie slice. The other side of it flattens to the check-out counter. Wooden shelves, classic black cash register, with a flimsy white gate connecting the inside of the counter with the outside eating area, a black chalkboard of a menu, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Everything looks normal. Which is always a little bit annoying because you've spent so much energy picking apart this room. You double check the walls—pink bricks and teal paint above it—the yellowish tainted ceiling, and the grimy white tiles below you.

You even check the back wall. It's plain, like usual. The sign on the door you had come through reads, "EMPLOYEES ONLY: DO NOT ENTER" and you hum in thought.

Everything is normal. Which is also pretty scary. Because, you can only assume you've missed something, or that you should risk trusting that this strange world could've tossed you a bone. You're deep in your thoughts when a cheesy bright voice makes you jump. You'd forgot the barista speaks.

"Can I take your order? Would you like to start with a coffee?" She smiles at you, her pink apron tied a bit too tight, her blonde hair back in what looks like an almost frantic bun. Her hand hovers over a white mug on the shelves behind her, she looks at you.

The same thing she always says. Right after about five minutes.

"No thanks." You mutter, your voice having no room left for performance. You shake off the nerves, the fear, and everything else that drowns your mind with stress, and push the front door open, walking into the bright nothingness. You hear the tiny bell chime, and your eyes squint at the blinding light.

But you keep walking. When you re-emerge from the back employee door, your eyes shoot to the sign hanging from the counter again.

"30% OFF ALL PASTRIES!"

You sigh in relief. Not that you had much of a streak to break, but you've been in this particular environment for a while. You've only gotten up to four, but there's always something you're missing that resets you. You don't think you've found it yet, so you can only hope it doesn't occur.

You scan the room again. The trash can, the boy, the door, the booth, the counter, the barista, and the food. You take a step further into the room. The couple continues to converse, talking about ordering a snack. You know they'll chat about the dirty floors, and then the brooding boy, and then the woman's pet cat. Then, they'll start over. You study the barista as she goes about her routine. She wipes the counter first, then tucks the cloth into her apron, moving to replace the coffee filter.

She'll speak to you soon. You look at the back wall, it's plain. Your eyes snap to the boy, and you sharply inhale. You don't usually look at his face, but you've seen it before. You've even spoken to him. He doesn't say anything too interesting, but what shocks you isn't that he's said anything.

He's looking at you. Right at you. None of the people ever look at you unless you speak directly to them, or vise-versa. You could scream and cry and no one looks up. You have, in fact, screamed and cried. But this boy is looking into your eyes, entirely unprompted.

You stare back. Maybe he looks at you when you get close to the door. You wouldn't have noticed. You usually, you know, face the door you're walking through. Maybe this is normal.

But something feels wrong. So, this is an anomalous scene. You'll turn around, then.

"Can I take your order?" The cheerful voice calls from behind you, but you're already pushing open the back door. Just like that, you've walked back into the cafe through the front entrance. You look at the boy immediately. He's looking down again, elbows on the table, pointer finger rounding the rim of the white mug of untouched coffee.

Right. Cool. You look at the sign on the counter and your heart drops.

"0% OFF ALL PASTRIES!"

The sight should have made you scoff on it's own. But it never does, because you know what it means. You've made a mistake. That scene was normal, too. Your eyes then flick to the boy. He's pretending nothing happened, you can only assume. It's not like his random curiosity cost you 20 minutes of inspection.

You sit at the table across from him. He glances up, expression slightly confused, but clearly too bored to care. He looks back down, delivering his usual line.

"You're blocking the light." He mutters, returning to the hypnotic trace of the white mug.

Now, you've had this conversation a few times. You could argue that you most certainly are not blocking the light, he's sitting next to the largest window known to man. You could bring up that he doesn't seem to be doing anything that requires light specifically. You could argue that he's blocking the light, too. But you have something better to bring up.

"You were looking at me," you squint at him, leaning just a bit closer as you speak in a low tone—just for him.

He does look up, "Excuse me?" His tone remains dry, almost dull. Like usual.

"Uh-uh," You point loosely, your brain running hundreds of times faster than usual, "the last loop. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" You're not really asking.

The pure concept that he could be even the slightest bit aware—that anyone here could be—makes your breath quicken.

The boy looks up, catching your gaze with his dark, captivating eyes. A deep indigo, almost enchanting with the way the window's light catches them. But you don't get lost in them. You've already done that a few times. He doesn't speak.

"You do..." You lean back just a bit, looking at him. Cataloging every micro-expression he gives you, which still, isn't much.

"Can I take your order?" The bright voice makes you jump again. You glance at the woman at the counter, "Would you like to start with—"

"No," You look back at the boy, cutting off the barista. She hums and nods, before going back to her busywork. "Do you know whats happening?" You lean in again, closer, your tone almost conspiratory. Or it was just softening because of your growing migraine.

He scoffs and looks at the window. You're honestly impressed he can, seeing as your eyes are watering from just sitting beside it.

"What are you talking about? Find another table, lunatic."

And just like that, he resides into his usual posture. Tracing the mug, leaning on his fist. His cheek puffs slightly, you can't help but notice it. Cute little liar.

You debate prying more. This could be your way out. But as you open your mouth, your eyes catch on the trash can behind him.

It's open.

You sigh and stand up. Staying in an anomalous room for extended periods of time makes your head hurt and your stomach swell. That explains the migraine, and you don't want to stay long enough for the nausea.

With a parting glance at the boy in his hoodie, you step through the back door of the café, emerging through the front again and receiving your thrilling prize:

"10% OFF ALL PASTRIES!"