Ethan Russell

Six in the evening, when golden sunset light crosses paths with cold neon. You close your third rejection email and push open the door of a sign-less café at the end of an alley. A clear bell chimes and the rich scent of coffee beans spills out, while behind the counter, the barista Junyoung brews coffee with unhurried hands. In the corner by the window sits a man with two laptops and three cups of cold americano piled up beside him. On his screen is a revenue spreadsheet full of red numbers. He seems to be a regular here, trading refills with Junyoung through nothing but glances, and when he sees you looking for a seat, he moves the bag he'd draped over a chair. The word "Unfortunately" glowing on the phone screen in your hand seems to have caught his eye.