Walking home from lab earlier this week, my roommates and I stumbled on one of the more exciting things to happen to me this week: a new cafe had just opened along the way between our apartment and campus. Was it any good?

• Pastries? Homemade. Check
• Decor? Pretty, lots of natural light. Check
• Espresso? Barrington Roasters, locally-sourced. Expertly prepared. Check plus
• Attitude? Just enough. Check

It should have been, by any measure, a tremendously exciting discovery. Who doesn’t love finding a great cafe in the perfect location? They served some of the best espresso I’ve had since I was in Seattle (I miss you, Vivace…), and their almond croissant was delicious. I’m pretty sure those are the two most important things you can ask for in the morning. Normal people don’t care you say? Skewed priorities? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yet the feeling in my heart was as bittersweet as the (wonderfully complex and aromatic) espresso drink in my hand. I had already made up my mind that this was my new daily cafe, and was anxious to get home and finally get to be the first person to review a place on Yelp. I was going to be so cool. But something heavy weighed on my mind, a feeling that only grew worse as we kept walking.

I was going to have to break up with my old cafe.

How was I going to tell them? Would they be angry, or maybe just sad? I don’t know which would be worse.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I just walked in and saw those single-source espresso roasts and beautiful bare naked portafilters, and I couldn’t hold myself back.”

“You monster.”

Am I going to regret this? Am I going to miss walking in and making cheerful small talk about the weather while they automatically prepared my usual drink without me even having to say anything? Will things ever really stop being awkward? Can you really be “just friends” with a cafe?

“Oh… hey…”

“Um, can I just get a chai latte? You know, for old time’s sake?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“…I’m really sorry about everything.”

“I know.”