On his way to his parents’ house, Varen slowed as he approached the café. He almost always stopped here before visiting them. His parents loved him, and he loved them, but their conversations had a way of circling back to the life they had once imagined for him and the one he had chosen instead. The coffee gave him ten minutes to clear his head and soften the first answer that came to mind. He was not preparing to agree with them. He was preparing to answer without turning the visit into an argument. The order never changed: one warm Americano.
As the door closed behind him, the chill from outside faded quickly, replaced by warmth and the rich smell of coffee. The late-afternoon sun reached halfway across the café floor.
Varen stepped up to the counter and, out of habit, looked up at the menu. It never really mattered. He always ended up ordering the same thing. Still, he stood there, reading through the long list as if there were something new to discover. Past the Americano, past the lattes… and once the names began to sound like flavors he could no longer imagine, he returned to the name he knew.
While he waited, Varen looked around the room. People sat alone at separate tables, staring at laptops or holding cups between both hands. No one seemed entirely at work or entirely at rest. A few looked past whatever was in front of them.
Then his attention settled on a table by the window.
A young man sat there. A thick book lay open in front of him, his hand resting on the page. His eyes followed the lines, but his finger kept tracing the same sentence over and over again.
Varen watched him a little longer. He knew that look. He had seen it in students before—the eyes moving across the page while the mind stood somewhere else. But there was something more familiar in this one: the expression of someone trying to remain inside a choice that no longer fit comfortably.
“Two Americanos.”
Even while waiting for the coffee, his eyes drifted back toward the window. When the cups were finally placed in his hands, the warmth felt good. He didn’t look for a seat. He already knew where he was going.
Varen crossed the room and set one of the warm cups beside the young man’s cold one. The cup touched the table with a soft click. Only then did the young man look up. Behind his glasses, his eyes moved briefly to Varen, then to the steam rising from the fresh coffee.
Varen tilted his chin toward the cold cup. “That one looks past its expiration date. This one’s still good.”
The young man said nothing. He looked at the new cup for a moment before picking it up and wrapping both hands around it. After the first sip, he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding.
“Mind if I sit?”
The young man shifted his book slightly to one side. Varen took the seat across from him and drank his coffee without speaking.
For a while, neither of them said anything. The young man closed the book, then opened it again. His hand returned to the same page, but he still did not turn it.
Varen waited until the young man’s eyes passed over the same line once more.
“That’s an intimidating book.”
The young man glanced up and gave a brief “Yeah,” but his eyes returned almost immediately to the page. Varen looked at the cover and asked whether he was in medical school. The question was simple, yet the young man took longer than expected before saying he was in his first year.
At the words medical school, Varen’s thumb paused against the cardboard sleeve of his cup. Only for a moment. Then he nodded and did not ask anything else.
Behind the counter, the espresso machine released a short hiss. The young man’s fingers pressed harder against the page, although he still did not turn it. Varen let the silence remain between them.
After a while, the young man spoke.
“I keep reading, but none of it is sticking.”
Varen took a sip of his coffee. “That happens.”
The pressure of the young man’s fingers eased. He looked across the table again, this time without immediately looking away, and introduced himself as Joon Sensa.
“Varen Io Vesper,” Varen said.
Joon repeated Varen’s last name, testing the sound. He asked whether it meant the evening star, and Varen explained that it usually referred to Venus. A small grin appeared on Joon’s face.
“So… an alien?”
Varen lifted his cup. “Still adjusting to Earth.”
Joon laughed. Around them, cups clinked, and the café door opened, letting in a brief strip of cold air. When the door closed again, he was still looking at Varen. His hand remained on the open book. Varen noticed and said nothing.
The next move was Joon’s.
— The Cult Leader —