DAY 1 (Tuesday)


He had just learned her name. “Violet,” she said, her voice a low melody as the cashier scribbled the word hastily onto a cardboard cup. For two weeks he’d been waiting to hear that name, and now he felt completely idiotic for not knowing. It was the only one that would have fit. She crammed the extra bills into her flowered wallet and dumped her coins into the tip jar. He was just able to glimpse the edge of her profile, her lips as rosy as ever as she stepped toward the counter. He ordered his unusual black coffee more quickly than usual with anticipation of having a quick enough order to time it to wait beside her, and with his breathing a little more rapid, rushed with his change in hand to the counter. She glanced at him sideways and for a moment the sunlight slanting in through the windows caught the highlights in her hair, but she turned away before he had time to open his mouth.

There was something almost intimidating about her. Maybe it was the way she shifted her weight to her left hip, or how she held her arms crossed over her Led Zeppelin t-shirt. She leaned against the wall beside the counter, her fingers drumming a rhythm of a song only she could hear against her pale skin. She almost always had her worn combat boots on, but on Fridays when she showed up in scrubs she changed to a pair of beat up high tops. Graduate student, he presumed. She probably interned at the hospital a couple blocks away. You’ll never know if you don’t ask, he thought to himself as she thanked the barista for her coffee. Vanilla spice latte, grande, no whip. He’d memorized it in the hopes that one day he’d have one waiting for her at her customary table by the window with the view of the skyscrapers outside. He found it strange that she never looked through the glass.

He took up his spot in the table catty-corner from hers, carefully observing as she set her cup down and shrugged her army jacket off, draping it over the back of the chair. She sat and began digging through her messenger bag, adorned with buttons of all shapes and sizes. She pulled out a paperback, this time it was Vonnegut. Last week it had been le Carré. He angled himself in his seat so he could just barely see her over the edge of his newspaper, which he feared they both knew he wasn’t reading. It was almost enigmatic, her appearance. She crossed her legs and held the book open with her left hand, nails an electric purple, and began sipping her coffee. He sighed and tossed his paper down. Another week would pass and he still wouldn’t have introduced himself. How hard was it? Just a simple “Hi, my name’s Sam, could I buy you a coffee?” would be sufficient, but at this point he was convinced that such a simple sentence would send her right back out the door. Caught up in contemplating how the remainder of his life would be spent alone if he didn’t meet this one girl, he barely noticed the light tap on his shoulder. He turned around, expecting a friend from his engineering class like usual, and nearly dumped his coffee across his jeans when he saw the girl standing directly behind him. The English language seemed to disappear entirely from his memory as he fumbled to form a greeting, but she cut him off before he even had the time to try.

“I know that you sit there just so that you can see me.” She said. He’d never noticed how piercing the color of her eyes was, a steely blue ringed in what was almost silver.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been coming here for two weeks now; you sit in the same spot every single day and you’re always looking over the top of your newspaper. I can feel you staring at me; you’re not as subtle as you think.” She was crossing her arms again, giving him a rather rude once-over.

“I- I just wanted to-”

“Are you following me?” She asked him, taking a step forward. He noticed that her book was still in one hand and her latte in the other.

“No, I’m not following you, I was just wondering if-“

“Because if you’re following me, I can tell my brother, he works for the police here.” He could smell her perfume, a light flowery scent, as she drew just an inch nearer.

“I wanted to know if I could buy you a coffee.” He blurted out, wincing and mentally kicking himself as his heart pounded in his chest.

“Seriously?” She said. Before he knew how to respond, she dragged an empty chair from the table behind him and sat, setting her book and drink down in between them on the table. “You know, verbal communication has its ways of winning people over.” He felt heat rising from his neck into his cheeks.

“I know, I’m just,” he began, swallowing hard. “I’m new here, I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“Do they not speak where you come from? You look fairly normal to me, minus the Jack Torrance stares you’ve been giving me for a few days now.” She looked surprisingly comfortable, leaning against the back of her chair with her auburn hair tossed lightly over her shoulders.

“No, I just transferred here, engineering school.” He said, noticing the sweat building between his shoulder blades.

“Me, too, actually. Just starting my residency a couple blocks down.”

“Yeah, I figured, you wear your hospital outfit on Fridays.”

“Okay, Kubrick.” She said, laughing. He noticed the blush in her cheeks and the white of her teeth against her skin as she smiled. “So did you actually want to buy me coffee or are you going to drag me to your apartment and murder me?”

“No, I’d love to buy you a coffee, I could tomorrow, if you want.” He tried his best to look hopeful as he waited for her answer. She glanced at the watch with a thin leather band on her wrist.

“I guess, if you promise not to follow me home.”

“I promise,” he said, grinning as she stood. “Sam, by the way.” He held out his hand and she took it, her grip firm. He noticed a thick white scar stretching vertically on the inside of her forearm, but didn’t have time to wonder about it.

“Violet, but you probably already knew that. Catch you later, Sam.” She said, dropping his hand and winking as she turned on her heel and walked through the door into the city.

DAY 6 (Sunday)



He normally didn’t go in on Sunday mornings, but Violet had insisted the previous day on coming again. Since the first time they’d spoken, they had seen each other every morning, sitting at the exact table that they’d met. She ordered the same thing and argued vehemently each time he insisted on paying, but for her it had been a losing battle. It made him laugh, the way she’d put her hands on her hips and glare at him, but in the end she always gave in. It was almost unnerving how quickly they’d begun to know each other.

“So what’s your endgame?” she asked him, taking the lid off her coffee to blow some of the steam from the top.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the point of you being here? No offense, you don’t exactly come off as an engineer type. I see you more as an architect, or maybe a songwriter. Something with creation.”

“Who says engineers don’t create?” She smiled up at him, shaking her head.

“I never passed high-school algebra, I don’t know what the hell engineers do. Too many equations.”

“I don’t know, I guess I’ve just never been inspired enough. I was never an artsy guy.”

“Bs. I’ve seen those drawings on the inside of that notebook you carry around with you. I’m pretty sure one of the sketches was me.” He unconsciously slid the notebook closer to him on the tabletop, unable to avoid her poignant stare. She just shook her head again and took a drink of the latte.

There were little things that he’d noticed about her that his eye had never fallen upon in the two weeks he watched her in silence. The tiny tattoos of a line birds that curled around the scar on her arm to her fingertips, or the plain silver cross she wore on a thin chain around her neck. She had a way of sitting that drew him nearer; the way she spoke his name was like a term of endearment in itself. He suspected that she could sing, he’d heard her hum the first few lines to Babe I’m Gonna Leave You while they waited beside each other in line a few days ago, and the timbre over her voice was one that he knew could carry a tune. She was like a puzzle that he’d only found the outside pieces for and he just couldn’t seem to get the ones that fit in the middle.

“I just don’t know.” he said, leaning in to rest his chin on his hands. “I guess I’ll find out when the time comes.”

“Just saying, chicks dig artsy guys.” She had her hair tucked into a braided bun that day, with a couple rhinestone pins crisscrossed just above her ears. Except for Friday, she’d shown up with some band t-shirt on and today it was The Clash. Her makeup was always done the same, shimmery grey eyeshadow and coal-black eyelashes, and just a tiny bit of pink dabbed onto her lips. He knew without it she’d still be the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, but he knew that he would never give himself the chance to say so.

“So what’s your story?” he asked, nudging her with his knee beneath the table.

“It’s not that interesting.” she said, almost like she wished that he wasn’t going to ask. He immediately noticed her arms fall beneath the table, her left hand splayed out across the opposite forearm in a pointless attempt to cover the obvious scar.

“With the amount of opinions you have on my background, you must be cultured enough to have at least something interesting to tell me.”

“You’re starting to sound like me now.”

“How’s that?”

“The hint of bitter sarcasm. I like it.” She leaned closer to him, close enough that he could smell the vanilla on her breath. “I’d like to call myself a hopeless wanderer, but that sounds like the title of a crappy vinyl they’d sell at Urban Outfitters. I guess we’re the same, in a way, just waiting to see.”

“Why’d you go to medical school? You must not be as dumb as you look.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, kicking him in the shins. “Honestly, I’ve always wanted to be the Dana Scully type, you know? She was just such a badass, plus I’ve got the hair to match. I’m just looking for my Mulder now.”

“So you’re a wanderer and a geek? Huh.” A smile formed on his lips with the words. “Come on, why did you really go?”

“That’s at least part of it, but thanks for crushing my dream of being the modern day X-Files investigator. I don’t know. If I can’t save myself I might try to at least save some other people on my way out.” An idea began to form in his head of what the scar was on her arm, but something told him that now wasn’t the right time to ask. A new dimension of Violet had manifested itself in that moment. He knew there was something beneath the surface of bravado and confidence, a cloud with a darkened silver lining.

“Well, you saved me from my morning routine, so you can check one person off your list.” He said. She wasn’t paying attention, but digging an orange bottle out from her bag. She unscrewed the cap and shook three white tablets in her hand, tilting her head back to swallow them with a drink of coffee.

“Allergies.” She said before he could ask. He saw the label though, in neat block letters her full name, Violet Mason, and her medication, Ativan, were printed. It wasn’t an allergy medication, but again the timing was all wrong. He’d find out sooner or later. For now, she checked her watch as usual and stood, thanking him and reminding him to be there at eight tomorrow. As he gathered his notebook and pen he couldn’t help think how surreal it was that the two of them had their own little world that existed strictly inside the Starbucks on the corner. He’d never set foot outside with her, yet he knew that her favorite food was lime-flavored Skittles and that she’d broken her arm when she was five. How much of her that existed that he didn’t know, beyond the coffee shop, left him with a perpetual sinking feeling and a fear that the routine was meaningless.


DAY 18 (Saturday)


Her coffee was already sitting on the table while he waited for her. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time on the brightly lit screen. 9:13. She probably woke up late. He told himself, but he had an instinct that was sending his thoughts elsewhere. He fidgeted in his seat, smoothing the flannel she said was her favorite and checking the pocket for the folded piece of notebook paper he’d slipped inside it. He rested his elbows on the table and ran a hand nervously through his sandy-colored hair, turning around to check the door. Still nothing. Nervousness was beginning to swirl in his stomach, especially after their topic of conversation for the past few days.

She said that it would’ve been best for both of them if he stayed away from her. He disagreed. He saw a whole new side to her that wasn’t the confident girl who confronted him. She was almost two different people shoved into a body that was only big enough for one.

“I’m f*ed up, Sam, sooner or later you’re going to realize that and you’re going to leave me like everyone else. It’s the end to my story and I don’t know why yours can’t just keep going.” Those had been her last words to him yesterday before she stormed out into a painfully cliché rain, leaving him to wonder what he’d done wrong. He’d managed to get the story of the scar out of her along with a few unexpected tears. She was sixteen and home alone. She said the vertical cuts were harder to stitch up and easier to bleed from. He’d never been to her apartment but he had a sickening image of her at a nondescript kitchen table with a trail of scarlet leading up to her porcelain skin.

He wondered what it would be like to be inside her head. That was something they had in common. Her eyes gleaming with interest, she’d questioned their existence time and time again, and he found himself never losing curiosity.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” She asked him, eagerly stirring her coffee. “You’ll never think my thoughts, and I’ll never think yours. Take your eyes, for instance. They’re green, right? We both call it green, but when I look at you and you look in the mirror are we seeing the same color? We call it the same thing, but what if it’s completely different? Just think about it, Sam. Every single person on this planet’s perception could be different and we’ll never know it because we’re always just stuck inside ourselves.” The thoughtfulness that she put into every single action was extraordinary, yet she believed she fell far below the norm. He’d gathered that she considered herself to be somewhat of an anomaly among the population, something that wasn’t meant to be there in the first place. There was a purpose in her life that she refused to see, no matter how furiously he’d argued with her otherwise. “You just don’t get it.” She said, crossing her arms like she did when she got nervous. “You think that I like this, having to think about it every day? I sit here in front of you wondering how many different ways I can die on the way home and you expect me to believe that this shitty person I’ve become is something worth fighting for.” He’d given her the reasons every time she’d found another way to prove them wrong.

The fire in her eyes had burnt out since the first day and there was no spark left. He found himself every morning watching her tug her sleeves down or spread her hands out to cover the new scars. The words from her mouth sounded the same, but the face from which they came was entirely different. She was out of his control and he couldn’t take it but at the same time he was being forced to.

“Sorry I’m late.” Her messenger bag slammed down in the chair and she tugged her jacket off. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail it was in and moved her bag to the floor. “Thanks for the coffee.” When she sat he noticed again what he hadn’t commented on for days. Bruise-like circles hung underneath her dimmed eyes that were bloodshot and filled with tears. She blinked them away and forced a smile at him. “What’s our topic of conversation today? God? The universe? The selling-out of Sofia Coppola?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of asking you to dinner.” He said, taking the note from his pocket and sliding it across the table for her.

“Dinner?” She looked at him skeptically, unfolding the paper. “My dad took me to dinner when I made honor roll one time.”

“Tomorrow night, I’ll pick you up. Read that before you come.”

“I can’t read it now?”

“No, it has to be right before you leave.” She shrugged, leaning over to stuff it inside her bag. The shirt today was the Stones. Same combat boots as ever. She watched him quietly for a few moments, clearly deep in thought. He wondered if she was picturing stepping in front of a busy intersection on the way out of the coffee shop, or perhaps leaning over the railing over her balcony if she made it home. He wondered who she’d be tomorrow, the broken girl or the one he’d met in the first place. He wondered if they were the same person.


DAY 34 (Monday)



This wasn’t Violet. It was as if he was watching her disappear right before his eyes, but trying to reach out and grab her was like trying to catch smoke in his palms. He suddenly understood why she had always been so concerned with being stuck inside herself, because in that moment that’s truly what he was. He wanted to fill the empty space that he saw growing larger within her but he couldn’t because she had taught him that his thoughts would never extend beyond himself. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and yell loud enough that she would at least pretend to hear him that he saw her and she was there and that alone mattered, but she was past the point of listening. She still smiled and laughed and teased him but she was constantly on edge and they both knew it, but neither of them would ever say so. She taught him how life worked and he hadn’t wanted to learn.

She had never showed up to dinner that night, and he didn’t know if she’d read the letter. She blamed it on a migraine, but she’d forgotten to take the white bracelet with her birth date off of her wrist the next morning. He didn’t ask because she would just rip it off and it would become something that had never happened. As the weeks passed he had become more of an observer. Watching someone give up was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he barely even knew the person that he was losing.

He didn’t know if she straightened her hair in the morning before they met or if she stayed up late reading the books she always carried with her. He didn’t know if she’d been scared of thunderstorms when she was a kid or if she’d ever been to the Grand Canyon or if she had ever wanted to be someone different. He wanted to know these things that made her up as a person and he had a deepening fear that he never would because she was just someone who existed to him in that coffee shop at 9:37 on a Monday morning. Once she stepped out, as she always did, she melted in with everyone else that he’d never know. When she wasn’t right in front of him he couldn’t save her from herself. He wasn’t sure that he could save her at all.

“Why the long face?” She asked him. She was picking at the cinnamon scone he’d bought her, taking smile bites here and there. He could see the ribs in her chest beneath her Beatles tank top. She had her legs crossed pretzel-style on the chair and was making a point of not looking at him while he spoke.


“Just tired, I stayed up late doing a project last night.”


“The little engineer that could.” She said, smiling halfheartedly. As she searched for a napkin underneath their things he noticed a deep red welt on the inside of her forearm, the skin around it dotted with broken blood vessels. He reached for her wrist and held it tightly in his hand before she could draw her arm back.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” She asked innocently, trying to wriggle her arm out of his grip. He wasn’t going to let go.

“You know what I’m talking about Violet, on your arm right there.” She looked down briefly at the mark.

“I’m hanging pictures up in my apartment; I didn’t see a nail sticking out of the wall.” Her lie was obvious, but despite that he let go and she dropped her arms beneath the table.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

“Sam,” she laughed, looking unsure of herself. “There’s nothing going on with me, I would tell you if there was.” An uncomfortable silence settled between them and they simultaneously stared out the windows. He felt a lump rising up in his throat as he saw her wiping tears from her eyes and he regretted asking in the first place, but the reality of it was that he was just scared. He wanted to lace their fingers together and walk home with her to make sure that she was still there, but that was an impossibility that became even less feasible as time passed between them. It was like they were stuck in two different dimensions and the only barrier they needed to break was the one that they couldn’t, and the frustration building up in him because of the loss of contact was nearly unbearable.

“Just let me come home with you, Violet, please.” He said. More gently this time, he reached across the table to place his hands over her considerably smaller ones, feeling the silver rings on her fingers cool against his palms.

“Just not today, Sam, my apartment’s a mess and I want to get it cleaned up before you see it. Another time, okay? I promise.” She slid her hands from beneath his, and checking her watch as always, collected her empty cup and the paper bag from her scone. “I’ve gotta go, I have a class in half an hour. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded, clearing his throat and taking a drink of his coffee. “I’ll be here at nine.” She said. She hesitated, and then leaned down to press a soft kiss against his cheek. “Bye, Sam.” He didn’t say goodbye, but just watched her leave, knowing that they would never walk out of the door at the same time.


DAY 35 (Tuesday)


The time was 8:53. He stared absentmindedly at the menu, knowing that he was going to order the same things as he had for the past month. He looked over his shoulder for Violet, not surprised when he didn’t see her. He dug in the pocket of his jeans for his wallet, pulling out a twenty when it was his turn to order.

“Hi, I’ll have-“

“I’m sorry, is your name Sam?” The cashier asked him. She was staring at him worriedly, her hands knotted together at your waist.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Yesterday, a girl, I think her name was Violet, asked me to leave this for you. She came in around noon and said that you’d be here this morning.” The cashier nervously handed a folded piece of paper that he instantly recognized over the counter and he took it with a tremor in his hand.

“Thanks.” He said quietly, stepping out of line. He unfolded it as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow, and beneath his own writing he saw neat cursive that he knew was hers. He found himself reading what he knew would be inevitable from the first moment he’d seen that scar, yet he didn’t believe a word of it.

Sam, by the time you’re reading this, I think you know that I can’t be there with you. It’s been too long and I can’t take it anymore. I know that you won’t believe it, but it’s what’s best, for everyone. Don’t come looking for me because I won’t be there. Don’t try and find my apartment. I don’t want to be found. I’ve been gone for a long time, and I just had to finish it. Try and understand. I know that you tried your best. It was never your job to save me, although I think that’s what you believed. If you find me in the papers, don’t come to the funeral. We were never meant to exist anywhere but here. I was always going to be a memory. You tried your best to love me. In the end, nobody could.


His vision was blurred as he realized he was standing on the sidewalk outside, leaning heavily against the wall of the building. People passing by glanced at him curiously as he read and reread what she had written. The sounds of wailing sirens and cars honking and people yelling into their cell phones weren’t enough to drown out his thoughts and the screaming inside his head. She had just been their yesterday, her lips against his skin, and now all he had left were the indents her pen had left in the paper. Violet was gone and for all he cared, so was he. It didn’t matter what the writing had said above hers. He’d told her how beautiful she was and how the sound of her voice sent chills up his spine and the color of her eyes reminded him of everything he knew to be perfect. With those same words in his hands, their story could have just as easily never been written.