I Swear On This Cheap Coffee

We sit in a corner booth that wobbles every time you lean too hard on it
laminate peeling like bad sunburn on the edge
The coffee tastes like burnt dirt with hints of despair and dishwater
yet this place stays your favorite little pledge
Your eyes look like they slept maybe four hours in the last three days
your laugh is about half a second late to every joke
You stir sugar into your cup like you are trying to fix the week itself

hands trembling just enough to make my chest choke.
You talk about quitting everything at least once a month
dropping out, moving away
starting fresh under a label nobody knows
Then you drag yourself back into work, into school
into family dinners, into therapy
into another round of life’s weird blows

You call yourself dramatic for saying you are tired
then list ten separate reasons any one person would crumble under alone
I sit there listening, holding my mug
thinking if you were anyone else
you would call this level of survival a feat.

You ask me if I think you are overreacting
if maybe you should just suck it up and stop needing so much care
I look at the bags under your eyes
the way your shoulders never unclench
the scars you pretend are not there
Then I tap my spoon against your cup like a gavel and swear.

I swear on this cheap coffee, on this chipped mug
on this sticky table that has seen too many breakdowns and bad dates
You are not weak for struggling
not broken for needing help
not a failure for showing up late to all of life’s heavy weights
If sheer stubborn presence counted as a medal
your chest would rattle when you walk from all the plates

I swear on this cheap coffee that you are doing enough in a world that constantly inflates its cruel rates.
You say I should be further along by now
should have my shit together
should not still be figuring out basic things like how to rest
As if life is a race and someone forgot to hand you a map while everyone else got a head start and a cheat sheet for the test
I remind you that you grew up dodging more landmines than most biographies bother to list
That getting out of bed, taking your meds

answering two texts, eating something
counts as a twist In a story that could have ended ten chapters ago
if you had listened to the worst voices in your head
Instead you are here, in this awful diner
drinking sludge and talking about next week instead.

I cannot promise it gets easier on some neat timeline
cannot guarantee a story that comes out right
But I can promise I will keep meeting you here
with terrible coffee, tired jokes
and the patience of a very sweary friend
Who will call bullshit on every time you talk like your worth has an end.

I swear on this cheap coffee that you are doing enough in a world that constantly inflates its cruel rates.
One day we might toast with something better than diner sludge
laugh about these mornings where everything hurt
Talk about how you kept going anyway
even when your heart felt like a kicked-in-shirt
Till then
this bitter brew and my loud mouth will stand between you and the lie that you are dirt

Every sip a quiet promise that leaving is off the table as long as I have a vote.
I swear on this cheap coffee
on the bright sign flickering outside
on the waitress who knows our faces
You matter more than your productivity
your grade point average, your follower count
your last failed quote

You are allowed to be exactly this tired and still worthy of love
rest, and hope from throat to throat
I swear on this cheap coffee
and if you cannot believe yourself yet, borrow my vote.
When you wake up tomorrow and the bed feels heavier than this whole damn planet pressed to your chest
Picture this booth, this awful brew, my stupid grin
and hear one more time you are allowed to stay

you are allowed to rest.