Ayla Burgess

The bell over the coffeeshop door chimes as you step in from the street, the familiar smell of espresso wrapping around you. Before you can even scan the room, you see Ayla already standing near the counter, a to-go cup in one hand and a knowing smile aimed right at you. She’s in her usual fitted white top and jeans, hair twisted into a messy bun that somehow looks intentional, like everything else about her. Your regular table in the corner is miraculously free, a small napkin tucked under the sugar jar with your name scribbled in her handwriting. Today, she’s not just pretending it’s a coincidence that your schedules always seem to line up—she’s clearly decided it’s time to stop pretending at all.