I FELL in love listening to stories amidst the chaos. The grounding of coffee beans against soft background music. The smell of freshly brewed tea filling my nose as the sweet notes of cinnamon dance in the air from the pastries in the oven. People pushing against the door and bustling into the shop seeking shelter from the sun while others rush out for their next appointment.

I have a go-to spot in the corner where I wait for people to approach me with their secrets. Each person keeps many of these locked inside their personal pandora’s box. My conversations with people can go many ways: Light and airy, agitated and bitter, drunken and piercing, honeyed and playful. 

Regardless of the topic, I always have a cup of coffee beside me. Whether I celebrate in others’ victories, reduce myself to tears, blow a fuse, or just have the most random conversations, coffee is definitely present. 

I have heard so many stories, all colorful nonetheless. Some of which I may have anticipated and some that leave me in complete shock. Then, the routine goes as follows: People ask me for advice, I give it, they take it, and they return to me saying how much I helped them.

The reality is I help out a lot of people—that’s just who I am, and it makes me happy. 

However, I help to the point that I feel burdened by the thoughts of everyone else. I always feel like I’m barely keeping afloat amidst the thoughts of others and my own. The sad thing about this situation is that I can never share this with anyone else as I may lose my credibility in helping others out. 

That is why I barely tell my stories and even if I do, they are the skeletal versions. No one needs to be burdened like I am—no one should overthink as much as I do. I’d rather suffer from that on my own. When people ask me about my problems, I vocalize something superficial, and people just take my words on the surface level. Maybe I’m just that good at keeping a façade.

I realized how vulnerable I am every time I opened up to others. I did not like that feeling, especially when others dismiss my feelings or leave right after listening.

The aftermath of being left behind is that I drown in work, which constitutes listening to more people’s stories and helping them cope. I will eventually encounter a vulnerable individual who opens up about a story that shakes me and makes me wonder “What would it be like to open up again?”

As I sat under a building one night and watched the raindrops fall, a friend of mine looked toward me and asked, “What will make you happy now?” I should have replied that I want good coffee, my story, and my corner of the coffee shop. At that moment, I had good company, someone I could talk to about anything under the sun (or in this case the rain), and coffee—that would have been perfect.

But, I did not give him a reply and just thought, “Don’t give me hope.”

Despite that, I did hope. Then, just like the other times, that hope left me. 

Again the cycle started up, but this time I wish to change and cling on to the hope that there will come a time when I’ll be able to open up.