Chapter 1 — The Java Script Café

Harper

The scent of caramel and freshly ground coffee swirled in the air, mingling with the soft hum of chatter and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Another day, another shift at The Java Script Café. My safe haven, my nemesis. Depends on the mood.

I wiped down the counter absentmindedly, my gaze drifting to my Story Notebook, propped open next to the register. Its coffee-stained leather cover was worn from years of use, the edges doodled with little sketches—today’s addition was a coffee cup with legs labeled “Over-Caffeinated Screenwriter.” The pages inside brimmed with scribbled dialogue, chaotic scene fragments, and more crossed-out lines than actual sentences. My current problem child was a romantic beach scene that refused to come together. I kept circling the same premise, trying to make the subtext work, but the characters felt flat—unreal, like cardboard cutouts trying too hard to be clever.

The door chimed, and I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Ah, the queen of messy buns and existential dread,” Noah’s voice rang out, smooth as ever. “Do I detect a faint aroma of creative desperation, or is that just the caramel syrup?”

I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me with a twitch of a smile. “Careful, Miller. That smooth-talking charm might actually score you a free refill if you play your cards right.”

He leaned against the counter, his dark hair flopping over his forehead in an effortless tumble, as if gravity had a personal vendetta against him looking anything less than unfairly handsome. “Or,” he said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper, “if I promise to read the twenty-ninth rewrite of your love-struck surfers’ epic masterpiece.”

“It’s not an epic,” I shot back, flicking a rag in his direction. “And it’s the twenty-second rewrite. Get your facts straight.”

“Ah, of course. My mistake. The twenty-second rewrite—it must be layered. Nuanced. Deeply meaningful.” He arched an eyebrow as he reached for his usual order—a plain black coffee, no frills.

“It’s called perfectionism,” I said, clutching my notebook protectively to my chest. “Not that I’d expect someone who thinks flannel shirts count as a personality to understand.”

“Ouch.” He grinned, his teeth gleaming in a way that was both infuriating and distracting. “Come on, Harper. Just one peek. I promise to give you nothing but constructive criticism.”

“Not a chance,” I said, snapping the notebook shut with finality. “The only way you’re reading this is if you’ve got a SAG card and a director attached.”

“Noted.” He sipped his coffee, the teasing in his expression softening. “Seriously, though. How’s it going? Any closer to finishing?”

I hesitated, my fingers brushing the edge of the counter. Noah had this knack for asking questions like he actually wanted to know the answers, a dangerous skill for someone like me who worked very hard to avoid honest self-reflection. “Let’s just say I’m in Act Two purgatory,” I admitted eventually. “You know, that delightful phase where everything feels wrong, and you’re convinced you’ll never figure out how to fix it.”

“Story of my life,” he said, leaning closer. The faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and subtle—made my brain stutter. “Except in my case, Act Two involves auditions where the casting director smiles politely and says, ‘We love your energy, but we’re going in a different direction.’ Translation: you’re too tall, too short, or your eyebrows didn’t align with Venus in retrograde.”

I snorted despite myself. “Your jawline is practically a geometric marvel. Don’t even try to fish for compliments.”

“Somehow, I knew you’d say that.” He tapped the side of his mug, a faint smile lingering before his voice quieted. “But seriously, Harper. Don’t overthink it. You’ve got this. You’re one of the most creative people I know.”

The words hit harder than I was prepared for. My chest tightened, and I suddenly became very interested in the streak of caramel syrup smudged across the counter. Compliments from Noah were like unexpected gifts—rare and oddly precious. “Thanks,” I said softly, the word feeling too small for what I wanted to say. “That... means a lot.”

“Anytime.” His gaze lingered on me, warm and steady, and I hated how easily it made my heart stumble.

The door chimed again, breaking the moment as a group of aspiring filmmakers ambled in, chattering about camera angles and funding woes. The air shifted slightly, the way it always did when the café buzzed with creative energy. My eyes flicked to the typewritten quote just behind Noah’s shoulder—one of my favorites: “The scariest moment is always just before you start.” It resonated now more than ever.

As I turned to start on their orders, I caught Noah scrolling through his phone, his brow furrowed and fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the counter.

“Everything okay?” I asked, handing off a latte to a customer.

He hesitated, shoving his phone into his pocket with a forced smile. “Yeah. Just waiting on a call about an audition.”

“For that indie rom-com you mentioned last week?”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “It’s down to me and one other guy. They said they’d let me know by today.”

“Big role?”

“Big enough to make me consider finally upgrading my Craigslist couch,” he said lightly, but the usual ease in his tone was missing.

“Noah, that’s amazing.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You’re gonna get it. I can feel it.”

“Yeah?” He looked up, and for a moment, the confidence that usually sparkled in his eyes was replaced by something raw. Vulnerable.

“Yeah,” I said firmly, like my belief alone could will it into existence.

He smiled, faint and flickering. “Thanks, James. I’ll let you know if your psychic powers pan out.”

Before I could say more, a customer interrupted, asking about oat milk substitutions. By the time I turned back, Noah was gone, his coffee mug sitting empty on the counter.

I glanced at my notebook, still tucked safely out of sight. The beach scene—which now felt less like fiction and more like a reflection of something I wasn’t ready to name—hovered in the back of my mind. Inspiration had an annoying habit of showing up when I was least prepared for it.

But this time, I grabbed a pen and flipped the notebook open, my fingers brushing the worn leather cover. The scent of ink and faint coffee stains filled the air. Sadie’s voice echoed in my mind: “Write fearlessly.”

The words spilled out before I could stop them.

INT. CAFÉ – DAY

Two characters sit across from each other, their banter masking the weight of unspoken truths. They’re friends, but the kind of friends who orbit something deeper, something scarier. One of them is waiting for a call that might change everything. The other is pretending not to notice how much they care.

I stopped, my pen hovering over the page as my heart thudded in my chest. It was just a scene. Just fiction. But it felt like the truth, stripped bare and exposed on the page.

With a sigh, I snapped the notebook shut, tucking it back under the counter. The café bustled around me—orders, chatter, the hiss of steaming milk. But my mind lingered on Noah, on the way he looked at me, on the way his voice softened when he said my name.

“Write fearlessly,” Sadie always said.

Easier said than done.