The barista called out a name that wasn't mine

The barista called out a name that wasn't mine

and I answered.

It felt like the most natural thing—

my sister's name on his lips,

and me turning toward it like I'd been waiting

all morning for someone to finally call me

by a name that fit better than my own.

He looked confused for a second.

His eyes went: something's off.

But he handed me the coffee anyway.

I've been her so many times this week.

When someone says her name in my direction,

I smile like I've been expecting it,

like there's been some mistake

and I'm the one who was meant to show up

instead of me.

At the table, I held the coffee

that wasn't ordered for me

and felt the warmth like an apology,

like the cup knew it was wrong

but was trying anyway.

My phone buzzed. A text from her.

It was a photo of her desk at work.

Clean. Certain. Exactly where she's supposed to be.

I didn't text back.

I just sipped the coffee

and tried to remember

which name I was supposed to answer to.