Veering to the dingiest, darkest corner of the cafe, I look around at the scattered patrons. All of them seem to be thoroughly engrossed in their conversations or their past, these couples: leaning forward, sometimes holding hands, sometimes playing footsie, a pair of feet dancing quietly under the table. There are only couples here, only couples come here, they only have couples here I notice. It's cute, the slightly awkward shift they do as they decide whether they want to sit side by side or across from each other. It's unmistakable, the smiles that touch the corners of their mouths as they drink from their straws; what they have in mind isn't known to just them, it's known to me too, as I sip my (non-alcoholic) Irish coffee. I keep thinking to myself about how college was supposed to be a transformative experience, how it was supposed to alter my minor self to a fleshed-out adult character, as if in a coming of age novel, as if through a smooth montage of