Sometime during the ages of sixteen and seventeen, I decided that my most crippling fear was of being truly alone. That fear, more than any other on the long list of things that I found troubling, had to have caused me the most bother and the most distress - or so I thought.

The better part of two-years later, at the ever-wise and infinitely more seasoned age of eighteen - my current age - I realized my fears needed reevaluation.

While assessing my fears, I came to the conclusion that many diagnosed issues in the world are simply premature and insufficient resolve. I suppose it's in our nature as humans to reduce complex and dynamic matters until we can label each of them with medical terminology and prescribe either treatment or medication. Sometimes we need neither, and simply knowing that we've grasped and labeled what is wrong with us is enough to live at peace with our condition, with what troubles us.

Second to that, I discovered that my greatest fear was not in being alone, but in feeling like I couldn't be alone when I wanted or needed to be. The things that keep us from ourselves, those are the scary things. And I decided that being alone, truly and blissfully safe within myself, that is peace.

***

It's still dark outside when I arrive at the Lighthouse Café, last night's storm now continuing into morning. As per usual, I hold my breath from the moment I unlock the front door to the second I reach the light switch in the back of the building. It's the fear again, my thinking every morning that I will meet an unwanted guest on my way to the light. The café has never been broken into - I'd been assured. Still, my nerves persist.

Once I'm confident that I'm safe in the now brightly lit little building - a contrast to the dreary morning outside - I begin my usual tasks. I assume the café won't be busy, particularly not in the earlier hours of morning. Since it's Sunday, most people will be having their coffee and breakfast at home. The rain will probably keep more people away, too. So, I opt to take my time with opening.

As I sweep the floors, only the sound of falling rain and occasional thunder inturrupts the quiet. Until, that is, I begin to hum Elvis' "Suspicious Minds," a tune that has been stuck in my head since last night's phone call with my parents.

My parents - I miss them so much. I haven't seen them for over two months now. It's the longest I've ever been away from home, and counting. Though I'm only hours from my tiny hometown, my parents were convinced that I would adjust better to college if I made a "clean break." Until Thanksgiving, at least.

My mother does well to seem unaffected, always excited and enthusiastic to hear how I've spent the day, what I've learned, people I've met, etc. But my father is different. Some nights, his voice will crack when he tells me how much he misses me or that he loves me and is so proud. Those nights, I'm thankful for my fear of driving distances alone in the dark, because it's all that keeps me from making an impromptu trip home.

Last night was the first time in nearly three weeks that my father's voice cracked. I had just told him that I'd scored a ninety-eight on my first philosophy paper and he said, "I'm so proud of you, Stella Lou." Rather than acknowledge his nostalgia, I listened over the line to him shuffling about while I made one-sided small talk about the television show that I was passively watching.

He finally spoke, "Listen to this, baby. This is still your favorite, isn't it? It's like we're on our Saturday car rides together again, huh?" Elvis started to play in the background and by that time it was I who was starting to cry.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice weak, "My favorite."

I closed my eyes then and let my mind take me back to our car rides. After dinner, most Saturdays, my mother would excuse my father and I from washing dishes and we would drive into town, just the two of us. We listened to the same songs and drove past the same places - the tiny town lit up in its weekend glory - but it was special to us.

I knew it was hard for him, for both of them, to have their only daughter grow up and move away. But I also know what it means to them, to be able to send me to college.

I end up having a few minutes upon opening to make myself a cup of tea before my boss strides happily through the front door.

"Good morning, Stella Louise! Rainy Sunday - lovely isn't it?" His full-cheeked smile is so genuine. He shakes the water from his now closed umbrella through the crack of the open door. As it closes, he removes his hat where his short, graying hair has been kept dry.

"It certainly is, Mr. Miller."

"Stella, will you ever call me Doug?" he asks, still grinning. Douglas Miller is the owner of Lighthouse Café, but he works most days, too. He says that he goes stir-crazy at his house, joking that any time that he has off is spent being bossed around the garden by his wife who seems, to everyone else, as sweet as he.

It's quite obvious that Mr. Miller - Doug - really just loves his café. He loves his customers and he loves helping his staff. He is an excellent boss.

On Sundays, it's just the two of us and Jimmy, who is quiet, but an excellent cook.

Customers begin arriving as soon as we open, but we aren't too busy, as I'd expected. Just before ten o'clock, we catch a break and the café is empty. I sit on a stool behind the counter, staring out of the shop's front windows and twirling the curls of my ponytail around my index finger absentmindedly. I am brought out of my daze when I see a familiar figure walking towards the front door.

The boy is wearing nearly all black, as he often does. He is clad in a hoodie, gym shorts, and running shoes. His hood is pulled up, his face cast down beneath it. I assume that his usual, thin headband maintains his hair underneath the fabric of the hoodie. He walks in a slow, steady gait, but his long strides set a quick pace.

The bell rings when he opens the door. He pushes his hood back before shoving his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt again. He keeps his head bowed a bit, but moves his eyes between Mr. Miller and me. The boy hardly smiles. Still, his look is never unpleasant, even when he is giving his concentrated frown.

"Charlie! Nice to see you. Did you go on your usual run this morning, or did the rain keep you in?" Mr. Miller, of course, has gotten to know a bit about the boy, or man - I'm never sure which to call him -- during his regular trips to the café. Mr. Miller has such a way with people. I've not yet had the courage to say anything to the boy besides "Hello, what can I get you?" or a similar social pleasantry, despite how fascinated I am by him.

He speaks in his deep, but quiet voice, "Yes, sir. I never miss a day," and he almost smiles - barely a crooked smirk.

Mr. Miller only gives a quick smile and nod, his bright, brown eyes magnified by his thick reading glasses, before confinuing with his task at the counter behind me.

"Would you like your usual?" I ask.

I bite my lip immediatley after and look down at the cash register. He shouldn't know that I remember his order. Why wouldn't I, though? He gets the same thing every time I work, probably every single day. I would seem ignorant if I didn't remember by now.

His eyes had moved back to the ground as he fished in his pockets for his wallet. But after I speak, he looks to me.

"Um, yes please. Thank you," he says, and hands me the exact amount that he owes. I'm thankful for his precision, because the brief moment of eye contact begs me to focus on other things besides making change.

Haven't I looked into his eyes before? Likely not, I'm not particularly good at making eye contact, and he is particularly intimidating.

His large eyes are so blue, but a deep, dark blue -- a midnight sky.

"I guess we're getting the hang of this, huh?" He says, causing me to look quickly up from my register. I realize that he is referring to our well-practiced exchange. Before I respond, he smiles, completely this time. It even touches his midnight eyes.

I just giggle. Not loudly, but still stupidly.

"So, no training on Sundays, right Charlie?" Mr. Miller saves me.

"No, just during the week and some Saturdays, if I have a match coming up or if I've had a bad week." He shakes his loose, brown curls, which are in fact pushed back by a thin headband, with his fingers as he speaks. He keeps his eyes on my hands as I sort his money into the drawer. I then deliver his order to Jimmy: oatmeal with brown sugar, cinnamon and apple slices. I think it's cute, that he should like his oatmeal with apple slices in it.

Mr. Miller is the only one really talking now, but the boy listens intently. His eyes are fixed on the chatty man and his rosy lips are pursed slightly. He looks to be a good listener, despite the fact that he doesn't talk much. He is emptying his pockets, while his full attention is on Mr. Miller. Another customer walks into the café and interrupts my boss' story. It gives the boy a moment to sort his things that are now scattered on the counter, and he puts them back into his pockets, presumably in a more efficient order. I appreciate that he seems to have a system of organization in place, even if it is just for his pockets.

Jimmy quietly lets me know that the oatmeal is ready. I collect it from the window between the kitchen and counter. Walking slowly towards the boy, I smile politely, keeping my eyes on the brown bag that extends towards him in my hand. He thanks me and gives me a slight nod, raising his free hand a little before turning away and pulling his hood up again. My eyes follow him out, until he walks from the window's view.

Mr. Miller has already helped the other customer and they are still chatting when I reclaim my stool, and I continue to wonder about the curly haired boy. I'd heard Mr. Miller mention his "training," before, but I'd never asked what he trained for, exactly. He looks athletic, of course. He is large, but a natural kind of musular. Tennis, maybe? He did say he has matches sometimes. I'd once considered asking Mr. Miller all of the questions that I had about the boy. But then, I decided that I shouldn't ask him until I've answered this question myself: Why am I curious, anyway?

"Stella, could you hurry and see if Charlie is anywhere outside? Mrs. Bates has just found a phone and I think it must be his," Mr. Miller asks me nicely.

I look with wide eyes at my boss, and slowly inch off of my stool.

"The rain has let up, he may be eating outside or walking around. Do you mind?" He offers the phone to me, his eyes studying my expression with patience.

"Of course," I nod. I take the phone from him and move quickly towards the front door, stepping out onto the wet sidewalk to find the boy. He doesn't seem like the type to just sit on a sidewalk bench and eat oatmeal. But he also doesn't seem like the type whose daily breakfast order is oatmeal with apple slices. He does seem independent; maybe he likes eating alone outside.

When he is nowhere to be found, I actually feel a hint of disappointment. It isn't as if we would've said much, but at least I could have seen him again, and wished him a good day. I sigh, turning on the pavement to make my way back to the café. When I do turn, I'm brought to face a broad, hard chest covered by a loose, black hoodie. I gasp and jump back a little before I'm able to look up again.

I'm met with his worried eyes.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I realized that I left my phone and-"

I cut him off by offereing him the phone. I immediately look down at the ground, and I can feel redness in my cheeks. Why do I have to be so jumpy all the time?

"Thank you so much," he says softly, gesturing with the phone in his hand before tucking it into his pocket.

"Of course," I say, trying to sound unaffected. I look up again, squinting a bit at the sun, now bright in the sky behind him.

"I'll see you soon, then," he says, taking a slow step back.

I can tell that he feels unexplained guilt about my shy behavior, and I feel bad, too. I don't want him to take it personally; I'm afraid of everything.

He seems sweet, but he is quite intimidating, too - so strong looking and so attractive. People probably act differently around him often. Perhaps he is self conscious about it, and his apparent guilt has little to do with me in particular.

In a lame attempt to make last minute conversation, I speak up just as he's turning to walk away, "What do you train for exactly?"

He turns back slowly and I can tell that he's surprised that I'm actually speaking to him beyond asking for his order and giving him a total.

"Sorry?" he asks.

"I uh, I hear Mr. Miller ask you about training sometimes, and you always look like you're going to or coming from a workout, what do you train for?"

He is facing me now, and he tilts his head a tiny bit. He, too, is squinting at the now sunny day as he looks down into my eyes, almost sadly.

"I'm a boxer," he says, "I train to fight."