Mistaken for Love

The bell above the door of Sweet Chaos Cafe chimed, a sound that usually signaled the start of Arthur’s only ten minutes of sanity.

He stepped inside, inhaling the scent of roasted beans and vanilla—a heavenly upgrade from the smell of antiseptic and the "essence of panicked elderly" that currently permeated his pharmacy.

Arthur lived a life of constant pharmaceutical warfare. His mornings were spent gently explaining to customers that "Google said so" was not a valid medical degree and that no, he could not sell them prescription-strength antibiotics for a stubbed toe.

'If I see one more squiggle on a piece of paper today, I might actually lose it,' Arthur thought, rubbing his temples.

"Sir Art! Your Large Caramel Macchiato with extra, extra, extra syrup is ready!" the barista chirped.

Arthur felt a spark of joy. This was his fuel. This was his armor. "Thank you, safe travels to my sanity," he whispered to the barista. He sat down, prepared to let the sugar enter his bloodstream, when his phone vibrated with the intensity of a chainsaw.

[URGENCY AT PHARMACY: MRS. SOMSAK IS ARGUING WITH A VITAMIN BOTTLE. PLEASE RETURN.]

Arthur let out a groan that sounded like a dying whale. He stood up, grabbed his cup, and power-walked out the door, his heart already mourning the relaxation he never had.

Five minutes later, the barista blinked. She looked at the counter. There was another cup.

"Wait... didn't I just...?" She shook her head.

"Eh, whatever. Sir Art! Large Americano, black as a soul, no sugar!"

A blur of white fabric slammed into the counter. Arthit, an Internal Medicine resident who looked like he had been caffeine-deprived since the late 90s, snatched the cup.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he was moving at a speed that defied the laws of physics.

"Meeting. Boardroom. Fourth floor. I’m dead," Arthit muttered to himself. He didn't even look at the cup. He just felt the cold plastic and the name "ART" scribbled on the side. He bolted for the exit like he was running a marathon.

He hopped into his car, tossed his stethoscope into the passenger seat, and floored it toward the hospital. As he hit the main road, he reached for the straw.

Finally. The bitter, glorious sting of—

"GLAAACK!! PFFFTTT!!"

A fountain of white cream and caramel-flavored syrup exploded from Arthit’s mouth. It sprayed across the dashboard, coated the steering wheel, and dripped miserably down his pristine white doctor's coat.

"DIABETES!" Arthit screamed, coughing. "I just drank a liquid lollipop! DAMMIT!"

He looked at the cup. ART. It definitely said Art.

"Did the barista have a stroke? This isn't coffee, this is a hate crime against my taste buds!"

With no time to clean the sticky mess, Arthit had to drive the rest of the way smelling like a burnt cupcake and feeling like his fingers were glued to the steering wheel.

Back at the pharmacy, the "Great Vitamin War" with Mrs. Somsak had finally been won, but peace at the pharmacy was short-lived.

Arthur spent the rest of his shift navigating a relentless barrage of customer concerns that stretched well into the evening. By the time the final visitor departed, it was nearly 8:00 PM—just minutes shy of closing. Exhausted, he at last retreated into the quiet sanctuary of his small back office.

The moment he stepped into the back office, his eyes landed on his coffee—stone cold and untouched from earlier. He let out a long sigh.

"Okay. Reheat. Recharge. Survive," Arthur muttered, popping his cup into the microwave.

He pulled it out, noting that the aroma was surprisingly... earthy.

'Must be a new bean blend,' he thought. He took a massive, confident gulp.

His entire face collapsed inward. His tongue felt like it had been slapped by a piece of charcoal. It was so bitter his ears started ringing. At that exact moment, the back door swung open.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO—"

SPLAT.

Aree, the local dentist and Arthur’s best friend, stood frozen. He was holding a beautiful strawberry shortcake. His face, his shirt, and the top of the cake were now dripping with bitter, black Americano.

"Arthur," Aree said, his voice flat. "I know you're stressed, but usually, people use their words to say thank you."

"Aree! Why is this so BITTER?!" Arthur shrieked, scraping his tongue with a napkin.

"It’s like drinking liquid soot! Look at the cup! It says Art! Is the universe mocking me? Is this a sign that my life is over?"

Aree sighed, reaching for a paper towel to wipe a blob of coffee off his nose. "It’s a mistake, Arthur. A coincidence. Now, can you please stop having a mid-life crisis and serve that customer who just walked in? I need to go wash my face before I look like a coffee bean."

Arthur adjusted his glasses, took a deep breath to settle his "bitter-tongue" rage, and walked out to the counter.

Standing there was a guy. A very, very handsome guy. He had sharp features, intense eyes, and... a very large, sticky brown stain on his white coat that smelled vaguely of caramel.

The guy handed over a piece of paper without saying a word.

Arthur looked at the prescription. He squinted. He turned it upside down. He held it up to the light. It looked like a cardiogram of a squirrel having a seizure.

"Well... Well... Well," Arthur drawled, his irritation returning. "Same doctor again. The very same one who has the handwriting of a literal toddler."

The handsome guy blinked, his expression shifting from 'exhausted' to 'offended.' "What?"

"I'm saying," Arthur sighed, tapping the paper, "that as much as I want to help you, this prescription is no good. It’s unreadable. Please return to your doctor and ask him to confirm if he’s prescribing medicine or if he was just testing if his pen still works."

The customer leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Are you sure you can't read it? Or are you just legally blind behind those oversized goggles you’re wearing?"

Arthur gasped. "Excuse me? It is the doctor’s fault for being so lazy. If these 'geniuses' knew how much stress we pharmacists go through trying to decode their chicken scratches, they’d be forced to use a computer. It’s reckless!"

"Oh?" The guy crossed his arms, the caramel-stained coat crinkling. "So you're blaming the doctor for everything?"

"Absolutely," Arthur snapped. "He’s clearly incompetent in the calligraphy department."

The handsome guy leaned in closer, a smug, dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

"Funny. Because I’m the doctor."

Arthur froze. The silence in the pharmacy was so heavy you could have prescribed it as a sedative.

"Oh," Arthur whispered. "Well... your handwriting still sucks."