Once we got to the cafe, you pulled me quick underneath the safety of its light-blue canopy, pulling me into you while you stared out into the hazy world beyond—a mostly-empty road by the shore—catching your breath, wiping rainwater from my hair.

Your embrace was warm and comforting to me. In those moments of miserable rain, cold and terrible, your embrace felt like a fire that reignited the life in me, a fire which heated my face to a blush of surprise.

That was when I first realized that I love you.

Relief upon us now, listening to the rain so violently pat against the sidewalk path, you softly laughed, looking into my nervous eyes, making sure I was alright. You pulled off my jacket, your own as well, leaving them both outside before we walked in, taking my hand again and pulling me through the doors with you.

You let me choose our table, one near the back of the cozy yet bright cafe, a photo of an unfamiliar urban skyline hanging on the wall next to it, a skyline that I wished I could watch in your arms, us both admiring the sunset, staying there until sunrise.

There, you ran your index finger slowly over the menu, searching for what to order from items you had read countless times now, while I had never laid my eyes on the white pages. With all feelings circling in my head, my blood full of wonder, confusion, panic, and excitement, it felt like a momentous feat when I explained that I didn’t know what to get, and didn’t know most of the words on the page. Tiramisu, mascarpone, matcha… things I had never tried.

You told me that matcha is a strange flavor. You said that it’s incredibly bitter at first, as if rejecting you, punishing you for daring to try it. However, once the harsh, sour bitterness is gone, you said that it leaves a sweet, flavorful taste behind, making you feel like all of that pain had been worth it. You said matcha was like life, though you’d rather have something with chocolate today, so sugary and joyful. I thought it must be nice to forget life so easily.

I could only live there for so long, only before my first-floor apartment flooded out, and my family had to move far away to a place where we could live for cheaper.

We had always been like that, poor and nomadic. It’s why my parents migrated into the U.S., all so they could build up a better life for me. However, despite promises of an upstanding American life, despite their hard work and labor, we never reached the dream of such a happy living. I soon came to realize that nothing could be truly promised to you, and that this world was cruel, damp, and dark—bitter.

I never got to say goodbye to you. I remember riding in the back of a car, looking back on the scenic coastal city ravaged by the recent storm, wishing I could see you just once more. With the memories of you running rampant in my mind, I sobbed into the fabric of the seat, begging to whatever god could hear my solemn thoughts that I would be able to see you again, somewhere, somehow. In the backseat with me, my mom could only take me into her arms and hold me. I couldn’t tell her the real reason why I was crying.

She ended up taking a full-time job, and wasn’t able to be around much anymore, though neither was my dad with his own job part-time. He’d drop me off at my new school, and would pick me up once he got off from work. With a pat on the shoulder, he’d ask his daughter how her day had gone, and we’d talk until we got back home.

There, in our new battered apartment, I was in charge of breakfast and dinner, poorly whipping up recipes I learned in my home economics class. Past the gasoline-pungent, often charred food, we’d still eat, grateful of a new day, and he’d still be grateful of his daughter, hanging in there just as he and his wife had for so long. Seeing me smile when he complimented my pitiful cooking as he wrapped his arms around me was all he needed.

As expected, school was as brutal to me as it was back in that coastal city before you took me under your graceful, merciful wing. Now, I was alone. All throughout my high school years there, I was so painfully alone, living off of the support my teachers gave me when I did well, breathing in the time I spent with peers sparingly, as only some of it had been good.

I joined the cooking club, I kept up my grades, I studied in the library until my dad finally came to pick me up, and each day, I thought of you still. Whether it be my eye catching onto a girl who only somewhat looked like you or crying into my pillow at night, remembering our time together, you had never left my mind.

Even when I moved on to a humble community college close to the apartment, home-life never changed, only now I was a better cook, and now the meals at home were at least tolerable. Dad and I rarely ever saw my mom come home.

I still had yet to understand the love I had felt for you, even after all of those years. I thought that maybe it was just friendship, though I remember longing to be in your arms, longing to see your face again. I remember feeling lost when I had gone out to see countless men, all dates dissolving out and apart. Despite how desperately my mom begged me to find a good, loving man in the moments in which we spoke—few and far between—I could only pretend to enjoy that masculine touch for so long. It felt foul, strange, and foreign to me. Though, when I would occasionally remember the day we ran through the rain together, I could only think of my beating heart, my flushed face.

I had never told my parents about this, even when I moved out to my own apartment in a bigger city, scrounging up enough money to open a small cafe. With hugs and kisses, ones from my mom feeling more empty, yet still sweet, bitter with the time we didn’t spend together, I was now on my own, though I had been used to that for some time now.

You, however, were the one thing I couldn’t live without. You still lived there in my mind, begging that I see you again, begging that I feel your warmth just once more, at least.

It seems that those many years ago, God had heard me, as computers and phones made my search much easier. I searched yearbooks, searched social media, and practically uprooted the entirety of the internet just to find you, and for some time, I thought it was all impossible. However, one day, finding another candidate, I felt my heart beating truly once again.

The same middle-school, same coastal city, same face and name.

It was like my first recipe gone right, the first paycheck I had earned—no, it was more special than anything I could ever own. It was you. Finally, it was you.

You made plans to visit my cafe today, and we made plans to spend the day catching up after all of these years apart. Old friends finally reuniting, others may see it.

I knew it was you walking in the door when you arrived. The sun was bright outside, making each figure a silhouette contrasted to the light from the window, but I knew there was no frame more beautiful and gentle than yours. My heart knew you were there.

From the kitchen, I walked out, plate in hand, only at the mercy of my own mind and emotions. I had expected it from the start—I couldn’t keep myself from shedding tears as I greeted you, setting the plate down at a table near the back as we embraced. I felt such life and energy enter my body then, such happiness filling my soul.

I knew that I had wanted to make you a crêpe cake ever since I wanted to meet you here, unsure of the flavor. For a while, I wanted to make you a matcha crêpe cake, bittersweet, a fond and reminiscent memory. However, that day, last minute, I figured you’d rather like a sweet chocolate flavor best.

It’s nice to forget life so easily.

Sweet Yet Bitter Still - End