Milo stumbled forward and immediately regretted it.The ground beneath his feet sparkled like spilled glitter — a cobblestone path made entirely of compressed stardust. Every step made a faint chiming sound, like stepping on celestial wind chimes.
Above, the sky wasn't just a sky.It was a living mural of stars that swirled and blinked with unsettling personality. The moon winked at him.Once.Just once.But enough to ruin trust forever.
And then the constellations moved.Twinkling lines twisted and connected like an impatient sky-doodle.
"ORDER SOMETHING OR LEAVE."
Milo blinked.
"NO LOITERING IN THE COSMOS."
"...Well, okay then."
He turned slowly, taking in his surroundings.
All around him, coffee shops floated gently in mid-air — some elegant and ethereal, others weirdly themed like "Grounds of the Galaxy" or "Mocha My Destiny." Each café sat on its own hovering platform, connected by bridges made of woven moonlight.
From somewhere in the distance, the lazy strains of smooth jazz drifted in — and Milo spotted the source:A cat in a tuxedo perched on a lamppost, playing a saxophone like it was born heartbroken and lactose-intolerant.
Milo: "Is that cat... emotionally complex?"
The cat hit a high note and dramatically turned away.
[i.d.e.a.l.] pinged in, its tone obnoxiously serene:
[i.d.e.a.l.]:"Welcome to Café Constellation. Where dreams percolate, secrets are brewed, and the baristas always judge you."
"Fantastic," Milo muttered. "A whole city full of overpriced coffee and passive-aggressive celestial messaging. Where's the next trauma waiting to sucker-punch me?"
[i.d.e.a.l.]:
"Processing sarcasm… complete. You're hilarious. Reminder: One of the girl's fears resides here, hidden beneath layers of repression and caffeine dependency."
Milo stepped onto a nearby bridge, the moonlight warbling under his feet like a very unsure xylophone.A flickering neon sign above the closest café glowed:
"THE BITTER END – OPEN UNTIL THE STARS DIE."
Milo sighed."Cool. Nothing suspicious about that."
With zero grace and maximum suspicion, he opened the café door — a small bell tinkled, the kind that says "you are now trapped in a metaphor."
Milo stepped out of The Bitter End and into the glowing alleyways of Café Constellation proper.He passed floating signs that shimmered with poetic dread:
"You'll never know what they were really thinking.""Welcome to the aftertaste of love.""Now serving: Emotional baggage blend – extra hot."
The city was moodier than a teen poet on a rainy Tuesday.
Each floating café had its own gravitational pull — not literal, but emotional.Milo could feel the difference before even reading the signs:
A glowing, ivy-covered café named "Bittersweet Brews" had customers openly crying while sipping pink lattes, smiling through the tears like people at a very polite funeral.
Another, "What If Espresso," gave off the weird, heady scent of nostalgia and possibility. One guy at the counter stared into his demitasse and whispered, "...I could've been a marine biologist."
A shadowy corner café called "Decaf Denial" offered no menu, just the quiet invitation: "Forget it ever happened."A sign underneath warned: "Two sips and it's gone forever."
But Milo stopped in front of one café in particular:"Latte Regret."A little crooked building suspended over nothingness, strings of fairy lights shaped like broken hearts dancing gently overhead.
He stepped inside.
Inside Latte Regret:
The lighting was dim and warm, the air rich with the scent of cinnamon, espresso, and emotional stagnation.
Patrons sat alone at tables, heads bowed over steaming mugs, whispering a single phrase into the foam:
"I miss you."
Every table echoed with that line, like a shared ritual.
Milo made his way to the counter — and there she was.
The barista didn't speak right away.She was a soft silhouette against the espresso machine's steam, her hair the color of burnt caramel, her eyes unfocused like she was listening to a song only she could hear.
When she finally looked at him, her expression was unreadable — the kind you'd wear if you'd been disappointed so many times you'd started romanticizing the feeling.
She slid a mug toward him.In the foam: an intricate spiral, drawn by hand with a tiny silver spoon.
Milo blinked. "Is that a—what is that? A snail? A cinnamon worm?"
She answered without looking at him."It's a prophecy."
"Right. Of course. Obviously."
He took the cup and stared into it.The foam began to shimmer, shapes emerging like ink in water — a girl's shadowy silhouette.Flickering. Fading. Fragmented.
Milo glanced up. "That's her, isn't it? The girl in the coma."
The barista didn't answer directly.She traced her finger along the rim of a new mug and murmured,
"She poured too much of herself into others.Now the cup is empty."
Milo frowned. "What does that mean?"But the barista was already making another drink, this time sketching a symbol into the froth — a broken heart with roots growing from it.
"Memory is steeped emotion," she said softly. "The stronger the feeling, the stronger the brew."
And then, just for a moment, her hand brushed a finished mug — and Milo saw it.
A memory, or something like one:
A birthday party. Balloons.A girl standing alone, smiling while everyone else laughed together — like she was invited but not included.The candles on the cake flickered, and no one sang.
He gasped as the vision vanished with a hiss of steam.
She finally looked him in the eyes."She's still in here, somewhere. But you'll have to taste the truth to find her."