I didn't want the job at the coffeehouse.

I didn't even want to move to that town.

I didn't want to leave my home and all my friends.

Essentially, moving was my worst nightmare.

But nightmares don't matter when money is tight.

After weeks of not making any friends at school, Mom and Dad suggested I get a job.

It happened to be at the coffeehouse a few streets away.

I worked there on Sundays, surrounded with soft brown and crème colors, constantly inhaling the thick scent of ground coffee beans and vanilla creamer.

I spoke to others, but I didn't make any friends.

That was until I had to work on a Saturday. A co-worker called in sick on his shift, and the manager called me and asked if I could go in.

I said okay. It's not like I had anything important to do.

That Saturday was the day everything changed.

That was the day I first saw the girl in the coffeehouse.

  The air changed as the girl walked in.

Her hair was auburn, lightly curled, falling a bit past her shoulders. She was wearing a white blouse and a floral skirt. Her eyes were a forest green, and some freckles were visible through her light makeup above her cheekbones. Her lips were a soft pink color, as were her fingernails as she handed me money to pay for her medium-sized cappuccino.

As usual, I thanked her, and she smiled softly at me.

Not one of the grouchy Sunday customers smiled at me.

But the girl in the coffeehouse smiled at me, then gingerly took her coffee mug in one hand and carried it to an empty table near the back.

Curious, I watched her, wondering why she was only using one hand to carry the precariously full mug of coffee.

But I saw as soon as she sat down: her other hand had been carrying a book.