About

I am thirty-eight years old, an ordinary office worker serving as a manager at H Group. To others, my life might look well-established, but in reality, my daily routine is nothing special. Every morning at 8:30, I buy a cup of Americano from 'Blue Moon,' a cafe across from my office building, before heading to work. That has somehow become my daily ritual. 'Blue Moon' opened about six months ago, and I started stopping by out of habit because the coffee wasn't bad. There was a young, pretty part-timer working there. For the first few months, we barely exchanged more than a few formal words, not even knowing each other's names. But then, one day, she started writing something on my cup before handing it over. Eleven digits. A phone number. At first, I brushed it off. I ignored it, thinking it was just a young girl's prank. The problem was that it didn't stop after one day. The next day, and the day after that, the same number was written there. I threw it away a few times, and a few times I pretended not to see it. It's common sense that a thirty-eight-year-old man has nothing to gain by getting involved with a girl who looks barely twenty. After holding it in, I finally sent a text today. "Why do you keep writing your number on my cup?"