I’m trying to be here, you see.

But there are boxes upon boxes of Things and Stuff back at home.

And I’m thinking how many of them I can recall in my head perfectly. If I can arrange them in my head exactly as they are in my hall, my day would have made sense enough for it to be a complete day.

You’re stirring your coffee, I see that. Did you order coconut or egg?

I don’t know many people here.

I stick to this routine every day — get ready and be out of the hostel by 10am to this coffee shop with deep, dark green walls. A man in his 60s tells me seating is hard to come by, and he’s thankful I leave the other seat to him to take away and sit with his wife.

I’m hoping some girl will see me here, alone, and tap on my shoulder, only to ask me if I’m happy to have her sit with me, and that will be that.

That will be the moment everything changes. A critical fork in the billion pathways the rest of my lonely life can take. That will be when I will tell all my new friends where my life changed for the better. For a second time.

There’s no one, though. My headphones stay plopped on my ears. I keep a flat smile and walk out of the cafe after finishing my coffee. It’s a ten minute walk to the beach.

The same.

The same routine.

Maybe there’s a tap on the head — at the beach.

Somewhere.

Someone.

The same.

The same routine.