September 13, 2024 — 7:08 AM
Location: Tribeca, Elevator 2
Weather: Sunlight shaped like a compliment
Mood Meter: 🟢 Steady (hydrated, caffeinated)
Sensory Notes: Marble echo 6/10 • Elevator hum 3/10 • Espresso smell 7/10
Coffee of the Day: Venti Caramel Macchiato (accidentally hers—again)
Playlist: “Ordinary” — Alex Warren

Some mornings feel as if the city wakes up with you, not around you; like the light outside your window knows something good is about to happen and it’s trying to beat you to the punchline.

This morning was one of those.

I pressed the call button for Elevator 2, the one that always arrives one second faster than Elevator 1 like it’s showing off. The doors slid open with that soft metallic sigh that sounds like a curtain lifting, and standing inside, framed in the warm hallway glow like some accidental angel of caffeine, was Chloe.

Her hair was tied up in a loose ponytail that probably took two seconds but looked like it deserved a Vogue cover. Her hoodie was half-zipped, her backpack slightly crooked in a humanizing way, and in her hands—of course—were two cups of Starbucks, both giving off the kind of steam that makes the world feel temporarily manageable.

As soon as she saw me, she winced in the cutest “I messed up and I know it” way.

“I’m really sorry,” she blurted before I even took a step in. “I picked up yours again. I swear the mobile order shelf is just… confusing. They put all the caramel drinks together like a trap.”

“It’s fine,” I said, stepping inside, pretending I wasn’t fighting a whole internal orchestra. “It’s not stealing if it’s destiny.”

She laughed—quiet, involuntary, warm. The kind that echoes longer than the elevator walls.

We swapped drinks, and for a millisecond, our fingers brushed. And yeah, I don’t care how cheesy it sounds — my entire pulse did a full synchronized dance routine. Nothing dramatic, just that sudden, subtle spark that makes your spine recalibrate itself.

The doors closed. The elevator hummed. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of us and the gentle smell of caramel and vanilla.

“It’s officially day two of our morning coffee chaos,” she said, gazing at the cup like it held answers instead of sugar.

“And Starbucks has still not apologized for causing this emotional turmoil,” I replied.

This time she laughed louder. The elevator liked that sound too — it felt brighter inside for some reason.

The Walk to School:

We stepped out into the lobby, past the tall windows spilling sunlight onto the marble floors like a spotlight, and of course — Mr. Luis was there waiting with his customary look of secret amusement.

“Good morning, you two,” he said, then gestured with exaggerated subtlety toward the stand near the door. “Appears we have… a surplus umbrella today.”

One umbrella. Again.

Chloe stared at it, then at me, then at him.
“I’m beginning to think he ships us,” she whispered.

I shrugged. “This is how legends start.”

The city outside smelled like fresh pastries from the café across the street and the faint promise of autumn. Our footsteps matched effortlessly — not on purpose, but because the rhythm was simply comfortable.

“You’re early,” she said as we turned the first corner.

“Dad had an early investor call with the Vanguard Alliance,” I explained. “He does this thing where he talks to Europe at sunrise like it’s normal.”

“Is that the billionaire thing?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” I said. “A… circle.”

She snorted. “That sounds even more suspicious. What do they do? Summon jets from the sky?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “The whole group builds things that go too fast or too high. Last time they came over for dinner they talked about supersonic private jets like they were toaster upgrades.”

“And you just sit there politely?” she asked.

“Politely… and quietly. I am a decorative plant at billionaire dinners.”

She laughed again, and I decided that was my favourite sound this week.

Business, Geography, Psychology (AKA The Golden Trio of Unexpected Comfort):

School days can be exhausting — the noise, the pacing, the endless parade of expectations — but today everything felt more lined up, like the universe had been ironed overnight.

Business class began with a discussion about company culture, and Chloe raised her hand with the confidence of someone who color-codes their life.
She spoke about transparency, about trust, about minutes — yes, the minutes — and I watched the teacher nod like she’d just solved capitalism.

She passed me a sticky note:

Minutes matter. Imagine the drama if we didn’t record anything.
— C.

Fair point.

Geography was about population clusters, and Chloe drew little dots with such precision it felt like an art piece instead of homework.

She nudged her pen toward mine.
“You’re doing your dots wrong,” she whispered, amusement hiding behind her eyes.

“How does one dot wrong?”

“Yours look like mosquitoes.”

Harsh. But accurate.

Psychology was the loudest class — the clock ticking, desks scraping, someone eating crisps like they were personally offended by silence.
I felt my shoulders tense, my thoughts tighten.

Chloe noticed instantly.

Without making a big thing of it, she slid her water bottle toward me, the soft scrape of plastic on desk grounding the whole moment.

“You good?” she mouthed.

I nodded, letting the bottle anchor me.

Some people talk.
Some people understand without needing the words.
She was the second kind.

Lunch & Laughter:

We ended up at the same lunch table again — maybe by accident, maybe by pattern — and spent ten minutes debating whether the fog machine budget was a crime against humanity.

“It literally spits vibes,” I said.

“It spits asthma,” she corrected.

We laughed through the whole break, and the weird thing was… I didn’t feel tired after. Usually, I do. But not with her.

AeroJets Dinner Night:

When I got home, the penthouse smelled like cedar, citrus, and the faint tension of people who dress in suits before 6 PM.

Dad’s voice carried from the kitchen — confident, warm, performing.

“Ah, Ryder,” he said, turning toward me with a grin that could power a runway. “Just in time. The investors from Helix Aerodynamics and Nova Flight Technologies are coming for dinner tonight.”

“Cool,” I said, even though dinner with CEOs always felt like attending a TED Talk I didn’t sign up for.

Mother slipped an arm through mine. “You just have to smile and answer when spoken to. Don’t let your father panic you.”

“I’m not panicking,” Dad said.
He absolutely was panicking.

Dinner was a blur of conversations about aerospace fuel efficiency, orbital tourism, and a new silent-thrust technology that sounded like it belonged in a sci-fi film. One of the guests, Dorian Crest, patted my shoulder and asked about school, smiling like he remembered being a teenager in a past life.

I nodded politely. Thought about coffee. Thought about the elevator tomorrow.

Roblox Night, Round Two:

After dinner, the penthouse quieted. I retreated to my gaming room — a safe, sound-dampened zone where the world narrowed in a good way.

My headset pinged.

8:46: Chloe: tell me u survived the dinner

8:47: Ryder: i survived the dinner

8:50: Chloe: any awkward small talk?

8:51: Ryder: a man asked if i believe in the future of supersonic global transport

8:53: Chloe: omg what did u say

8:55: Ryder: “yes.”

8:56: Chloe: you’re so wise

8:59: Ryder: years of practice

9:00: Chloe: obby?

9:01: Ryder: absolutely

We played until nearly ten — jumping lava pits in the game “The Floor is LAVA!”, and then building digital gardens in the game “Grow a Garden”, laughing at NPC seed dealer glitches. At one point, whilst playing that lava obby game, Chloe made this awful jump and her Roblox character rag-dolled straight into the void.

“That was tragic,” I said.

“That was art,” she insisted.

Late-Night Encounter:

At 10:52 PM, I went downstairs to grab water.
The lobby was nearly empty — quiet, dim, peaceful.

Mr. Luis looked up with a smile that suggested he’d been waiting for the perfect dramatic moment.

“We found this by the door,” he said, gesturing with a flourish.

Another umbrella.

One. Single. Umbrella.

I stared.

He winked.

I took it.

Some things you don’t question. You just accept them the way you accept gravity or the taste of good caramel.

Night Log — 11:38 PM:

• Billionaire dinner survived.
• Investors have strong opinions about silent‑thrust propulsion.
• Chloe’s “mosquito dots” insult was correct. Unfortunately.
• Morning routine with her is starting to feel like the best part of the day.
• Should figure out whether the umbrella thing is coincidence or cosmic foreshadowing.
• Tomorrow = 7:08 elevator. Hope levels: high.

Prediction:
If she smiles at me again, I’m going to have a statistically significant heart event.