𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 || BWWM

I hate this fucking place so much.

The smell of burnt espresso and stale coffee hits me the moment I clock in, like a bad joke I'm forced to hear every damn day.

And yet... it's mine. I've been the proud owner of The Daily Grind for a year, and every ounce of me hates and loves it at the same time.

The clatter of cups, the buzz of half-hearted small talk, it's all noise, nothing I want to be part of.

Behind the counter, I'm just another cog, apron tied tight, pretending the hours won't crush me.

The rush never stops, and neither do the demands.

My phone sits silent on the corner, waiting for the moment I can hide behind it. But right now? Too many people. No escape.

I grew up in a place where things were black and white, not just skin, but rules, expectations, what you were supposed to be.

I swallowed it all, like bitter medicine, never questioning if it made me sick.

Family dinners filled with jokes I wasn't supposed to laugh at, warnings about who to trust, who to keep at arm's length.

They said it was about keeping safe, but all I felt was the weight of walls closing in.

I'm no stranger to loyalty, but sometimes it feels like a cage.

There's a girl I'm with, Anna. She's steady, predictable. Safe. Most importantly just like me.

She's what my life looks like on paper. But inside? There's a part of me that's restless, aching for something I can't name.

Every day, I slip on the same mask, go through the motions. But beneath it all, there's a tension, a knot that tightens when I least expect it.

She's the kind of girl who doesn't ask too many questions, doesn't stir up trouble.

When she laughs, it's quiet, like she's saving her energy for something else. We don't fight much, maybe because we don't say what's really wrong.

Sometimes I wonder if she sees through me or if I'm just good at hiding the cracks.

When I'm with her, I feel... anchored, but also like I'm sinking slowly. Like I'm trading pieces of myself for comfort, and there's no undo button.

I catch myself watching couples walking hand in hand, the way they move like they're part of the same rhythm something I'm not sure I have the right to.

The truth is, I'm not sure what I want. Or who I want to be.

This job, this life, it's safe. But safe isn't freedom.

Maybe that's why I'm so damn restless all the time.

I glanced out the window and saw a group of Black guys hanging out in front of the café. Their voices were loud, brash, full of that gutter noise I'd been raised to despise. I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but it didn't matter.

They were just... loud. Always loud. Like they thought the whole damn world was their stage, and everyone else had to shut up and watch.

The way they swaggered down the street, talking over each other like they owned the place, it made my skin crawl.

My parents warned me about them my whole life. Said they were lazy, violent, nothing but trouble. And I believed it. Because it was easier than facing the truth.

I told myself I wasn't like that. That I was better. Smarter. Above it. But the ugly truth was, I hated them. All of them.

I hated their music blaring, their slang that sounded like noise, the way they moved like they didn't give a damn about anything.

They didn't belong here. Not in my world

There's no point pretending I'm the nice guy. I'm not.

People say I've got a temper and they're not wrong. I don't fake smiles. I don't sugarcoat shit for customers.

If you take too long at the register, I'll let the silence get thick until you feel stupid.

If you talk down to me, I'll talk down right back.

They say I'm rude. Cold. Some even whisper racist perhaps,

They don't say it to my face, but I've heard the murmurs. I've seen the stares from customers who feel like I'm already judging them.

Maybe I am. Maybe I was raised to.

The truth? I don't even know what I believe anymore. It's like there's two voices in my head one that sounds like home, familiar and ugly, and another that creeps in when I least expect it, asking why.

Why do you tense up when someone darker walks in?

Why do you feel the need to assert something anything just to feel in control?

I tell myself I'm tired. That it's just work stress. That people are too sensitive now or too 'woke".

But deep down, there's this rotting thing inside me I've never dealt with.

Bias. Pride. Fear.

All tangled up.

And then I take another order like nothing's wrong. I wipe a counter and pretend I'm just a guy trying to get through the day.

But I know the truth.

I've built walls so high, I can't even see over them anymore.

The door chimed, sharp and annoying, as a guy walked in maybe early twenties, fresh fade, big winter jacket even though it was barely cold.

One of those loud types, already on the phone before he even looked at the menu

He didn't glance at me once. Just kept yapping about his weekend, something about a club, a fight, girls.

His voice was loud enough to cut through the music we had playing, and it crawled under my skin.

He took his time getting to the counter. I wiped the surface slowly, letting him feel the weight of my silence. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.

"Yo, lemme get a- hold up," he paused, still mid-phone call, and started laughing at something the other guy said.

I waited. One second. Two.

"Order when you're ready, not when your friends are done making jokes," I sighed , still wiping.

He looked up at me, confused. "Huh?"

"I'm not standing here so you can finish your call. Order, or step aside."

His brows shot up. "Damn. Aight, chill out. Just a cappuccino."

I didn't answer. Just turned, punched it into the register harder than I needed to, and hit the button to start the machine.

"People skills on point," he mumbled under his breath, shaking his head.

I heard it. I let it sit between us.

He didn't even stay to wait just hovered near the exit, still on the phone, complaining about "weird-ass energy."

Good. Let him feel it.

I slid the cup onto the counter without calling his name. He noticed. Took it, didn't say thanks.

I didn't care.

I never do.

The noise died down.

After that one loudmouth finally left, the café settled into something quieter like the building took a breath. No more line. No clinking.

No bullshit. Just me, the machine humming low behind me, and the occasional hiss of steam.

I wiped the counter again, slower this time. Mostly for something to do.

“The radio behind the counter caught my attention. I reached over and turned the volume up slightly.

"Breaking news: another controversy involving a major development project connected to the Thompson family. Reports claim charity funds intended for Africa were redirected toward business ventures."

I stared at the radio for a moment.

Well, I wasn't surprised.

It wasn't the first time a story like this had made the news.

People loved turning everything into a scandal.

Reaching over, I lowered the volume again, shaking my head.

Another headline. Another argument.

Glancing around, no eyes were on me. Perfect.

I grabbed my phone, unlocked it, opened Anna's name.

"You up?" I typed. Deleted it. Typed again.

"Almost done soon. Might come by."

Another second passed. No reply yet. Typical.

That's when the bell above the door chimed.

Soft. Delicate.

I didn't look up at first I was still halfway in my head, halfway in that message bubble. But something about the silence that followed made me raise my eyes.

A black walked into the café.

At first, my eyes skimmed over her like I did with every Black girl who came in. I didn't expect anything different loud, flashy, maybe too much makeup, trying too hard to stand out or fit in, the kind who acted like the world owed them something.

Just the usual.

I caught myself rolling my eyes, already making up stories about her before she'd even spoken.

But then, I looked away. Almost like I was trying to hide how much my mind was jumping to conclusions, trying not to let those old judgments control me. My gaze dropped to the counter, the floor, anything but her.

But something made me look back. I glanced up again, half-expecting to see the same thing, to confirm my gut feelings. But no. She wasn't what I expected.

She moved differently. Not loud or trying too hard, but quietly confident.

Golden-brown skin that caught the light. Hair sleek and bouncing just slightly with each step. Lips full and glossy, like something out of a magazine but not overdone. Not trying.

She didn't look at me. Not right away.

She just stepping to the counter like she'd done it a hundred times before calm, graceful. Her eyes barely swept across the space. Like she wasn't impressed. Like she didn't need to be.

I stared too long.

I knew I was staring.

And still, the first thought that hit me was

She's not ugly... for a colored girl.

The kind of thought that sneaks up on you, quiet but rotten.

I felt it crawl through my chest, then vanish into nothing before I could examine it.

She didn't even see me yet, but something in my stomach tightened. I straightened my back. Wiped my hands on the towel. Suddenly felt too warm.

I tried to swallow it down, the heat, the stare, the voice in my head I didn't want to listen to.

She was just another customer. Just a girl.

Except she wasn't.

I looked down, then around the café, trying to will the heat in my chest away. Disgust, irritation, something sharper, I couldn't name it, all tangled together.

The customers cast glances her way, muttering, whispering, rolling their eyes. I understood them perfectly. Didn't matter that they were polite in public. Didn't matter that she hadn't done a damn thing. In their eyes and mine, she didn't belong here.

I ground my jaw. Tried to focus on the register, the counter, the hum of the espresso machine, anything to keep my eyes off her. But it was impossible.

She moved closer, slow, confident, like she knew exactly how every inch of herself pulled attention. My gut twisted. My eyes followed, against my will, tracing the curves of her body hidden beneath layers of fabric. My brain shouted at me to look away, but my eyes didn't care what I wanted.

I hated her already.

I hated how she made me feel. I hated how alive I suddenly felt, like I'd been suffocating in the same air for years. And worse... I hated myself for noticing.

She didn't need me to see her. She didn't glance my way. But every step she took toward the counter felt intentional, magnetic, a silent provocation I couldn't fight.

I pressed my palms to the edge of the counter, trying to anchor myself.

Shit. She's coming closer.