Chaotic Coffee // h.s.

p r o l o g u e

I do not have telepathy but when I look in my boyfriend's eyes and I do not see the same spark I saw seven years ago when we first met, I know that something is wrong. And when he makes me read the chapter he has been working on about a boy falling out of love with his girlfriend, I am not too dumb to assume that it is just the product of his creative imagination. 

Niall is the type of writer who writes from experience, someone whose buried feelings are screamed by his characters. In fact, the first time anyone outside his family ever learned about his parents' divorce (which he kept hidden from everybody for at least three months) was when he wrote a poem about an empty dining table for English class and Mrs. Robinson thought it was "so moving," she asked Niall to stay after class just to ask him if it was inspired by a true story. 

I think it is safe to say that the best way to understand Niall's mind is through his words. Hence, when he wakes me up at seven o'clock in the morning to show me a finished chapter from his book that is literally entitled "Love You, Goodbye" (yes, like that One Direction song), I know that it means something.

After all, it would not be totally unreasonable if he wakes up one day and realizes he no longer wants to be with me. I am not exactly a "great catch," at least according to his family's standards. 

For starters, his grandmother, despite her desperate attempt to act like she likes me when Niall is around, absolutely hates my guts. The first question she ever asked me when we were introduced was if I could cook. Sixteen-year-old self-proclaimed "sprouting feminist" me—who was just beginning to read Cixous and was turning quite aggressive—was so furious that she didn't ask me what I was planning to study in college or even what my hobbies were, that I looked her in the eyes and said "I am not a 1950s housewife."

I still regret this up to today, for it is probably the reason why whenever she and I are left alone, she turns up the TV volume, does not speak a word, and deliberately tries to look cold as if she wants me to notice that she's ignoring me.

And how can I talk about Niall's grandmother without also mentioning her son, Niall's father, who simply cannot sit through a whole Thanksgiving dinner without talking about Niall's childhood girlfriend Lauren, and "how much hotter she has gotten after puberty"? 

And the sad part is that I can't even blame them. Even I do not think that I am that much of a "great catch" at times. Niall is just...too much.

You see, at twenty-four, he is a published author and a restaurateur. He cooks well, he smells good, and he's a romantic. He shows up at my door with white roses for no reason. He sends me handwritten letters when he's away, even if it's just for three weeks. And to top it all off, he is a genuinely good person. He opens the door for people, never fails to say "please" and "thank you," and lets me wear his jacket when I'm cold, without complaint, even though he asked me to bring my own before we left the house and I insisted it wouldn't match my outfit. He's a character straight off of his novels. A sculpture carefully carved, painted with warm blue eyes and a freckled nose. Just the most gentle and beautiful human being I've ever met.

 And I am not much. Average, at best.

To answer Niall's grandmother's question: no, I cannot cook. Perhaps, my overly aggressive idea of feminism at sixteen was something that I used as a cover up for the fact that I just had no talent in the kitchen. Or anywhere, for that matter. 

I took up Marketing in college, and graduated with a 3.15 GPA, which, in high school, is the equivalent of a B. I like to draw, but can never get the eyes even. I have no musical abilities, nor can I dance in front of anybody but Niall or my crazy sister. And I was so forgettable in high school that the only things people remembered me by were 1) that I was Niall's girlfriend, and 2) that I was that girl in gym class who always used her asthma as an excuse so that she wouldn't have to play dodgeball.

Yes, I am average at best. And no, I do not deserve Niall Horan. Not at all. I change the channel to Disney to watch Phineas and Ferb when he's watching football. I burn everything I cook. And I am not even that cute to make up for all the things that I lack.

But I love Niall, and have loved him for seven years. I am certain that there is no one else, absolutely no one else in this world that I can love for seven more minutes except him. 

So if you're wondering why there is a tall, curly-haired boy in my kitchen, the answer is this.