The diary of almost everything

Do you remember those small rituals from childhood?
Coming home after a long day, and there it was, a cup of tea or juice waiting for you, maybe even a cookie if you were lucky.
A tiny moment of attention.
A simple question: “How was your day?”

(A question, by the way, that kids often answer with a solid “I don’t remember.” Not me though,  I mostly hear that from friends nowadays, about their own kids.
I was more the “fine” type. Brief, efficient, ready to move on.)

I wasn’t the type to stare suspiciously at people when they asked, but in general, I’ve always been someone who watches first.
Observing. Sensing.
Trying to figure out if it’s safe to show up as myself.
(And once I do start talking… good luck. Summarizing has never been my strong suit.)

That need for a pause, a quiet landing spot, has always stayed with me.
It just shifted over the years,  from kitchen tables to coffee shops.
Tea remained a quiet constant, even as my surroundings changed
My tea journey evolved something like this:

English tea, with milk and too much sugar

Tea, just sugar

Tea, with a sweetener

Tea, plain

And finally: hot water.
(Yes, you read that right. Hot water. No teabag. Don’t ask.)

And somewhere along the way, I also fell in love with the latte.

These days, it’s a medium café latte mild, almost without exception.
After work, after appointments, I usually sneak in a quick visit to my favorite coffee place.
They know me so well by now, I barely have to order.
(Unless it’s a blistering summer day. Then, and only then, I betray my loyalty with an iced cappuccino.)

Am I a real coffee drinker?
Absolutely not.
If you hand me a black coffee, I will hand it back with love but firm refusal.
The more milk, the better.
Honestly, a cup of steamed milk would probably make me just as happy.

Sometimes I wonder: is there such a thing as a regular bar, but for coffee?
Like, a latte lair. A café-cave.
Somewhere they know your name, your drink, and that you panic if your usual table is taken.
Honestly, I don’t want much, just a place where the espresso understands me.

(And speaking of coffee…)
I’m aware that Italians would be horrified to see me ordering a latte after 11 AM. But honestly, what’s life without small rebellions?
We all have our quirks.
And as long as no one’s getting hurt, who’s to say what’s normal anyway?

Yes, I go there for the coffee.
But maybe even more for the breathing room.
Some days I sit there for half an hour.
Other days, for hours.
Watching, daydreaming, people-watching, building small stories in my head.

When I was younger, I sometimes felt a little ashamed of it.
Not because I didn’t enjoy it, I loved it.
But because people around me would ask things like:
“So, what are you doing later?” or “Got any exciting plans?”

And in a mild panic, I’d make something up, as if a quiet evening to myself wasn’t good enough.
Like being content alone needed to be justified.

Truth is, I’ve always been a bit of a homebody.
And these days, I’m more than okay with it.
Most of the time, anyway.
(Some days the old voice still creeps in, the one that worries about how others might see me. But it’s quieter now.)

And let me be clear:
I love spontaneous adventures with friends too.
Laughing until my stomach hurts, late nights full of ridiculous stories, talking nonsense until the world feels lighter.
Those are precious moments too.

It’s not either/or.
It’s both.
It’s learning that happiness can live in a crowded café,
and in the quiet corner of a coffee shop, just you and your latte.

And whenever I start to wonder again whether I’m “doing it right,” I remind myself:

> The bravest thing you can be, is simply yourself.

Laugh, nod, roll your eyes,  it all counts ;-).
And if no one else gets it, don’t worry… the espresso does.

– Sophie Quinn

Feel free to leave a tiny echo below.