Chapter 15: Nana Dies Twice
Monica and Ross walked into Central Perk at 11:23 AM on Thursday, October 20th, looking like they'd been awake for thirty-six hours straight.
I knew before they said anything. The exhaustion, the red eyes, the way they moved like people carrying invisible weight.
Someone had died.
They went straight to the orange couch without ordering. The others weren't there yet—too early for the usual gang arrival time.
I gave them five minutes, then approached with two coffees I'd made without being asked. Regular for Ross, decaf cappuccino for Monica.
"On the house," I said quietly, setting them down.
Monica looked up at me and I saw grief written plainly on her face. "Our grandmother died last night. Nana."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks." She wrapped both hands around the cup like it was an anchor. "It's weird. She actually died twice. Heart stopped at the hospital, they revived her, then it stopped again an hour later."
Ross made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Mom said at least Nana was consistent. Always had to do everything twice to get it right."
They sat in silence, drinking the coffee. I'd infused both cups with green light—calm and peace, not trying to erase their grief but just making the weight slightly more bearable.
Monica took a sip and some of the tension in her shoulders eased. Not much, but enough to breathe.
The others started arriving around noon. Word had spread somehow—maybe Monica had called them, maybe they'd sensed something was wrong.
Each arrival brought condolences. Phoebe hugged both siblings and offered to channel Nana's spirit, which Ross politely declined. Rachel sat next to Monica and just held her hand. Chandler made one joke, saw it didn't land, and switched to genuine support. Joey offered to beat up death, realized that didn't make sense, and settled for sitting nearby looking concerned.
I watched from behind the counter, learning their grief vocabulary. It was quieter than their usual chaos. More honest. They dropped the performance and just existed together in sadness.
By evening, the conversation had shifted to funeral logistics and family drama.
"Mom wants the service on Saturday," Monica was saying. "Full Catholic funeral mass, even though Nana hadn't been to church in twenty years."
"She'd have found that funny," Ross said. "She always said organized religion was just an excuse for bad potluck."
Chandler had been quiet most of the day, but now he spoke up. "Can I ask a weird question?"
"Always," Monica said.
"Do I look gay?"
The entire table went silent.
"What?" Rachel asked.
"At Nana's deathbed, one of her friends—Mrs. Green, older lady—she kept calling me 'that nice gay friend of Ross's.' And I was like 'I'm not gay,' and she was like 'oh honey, it's okay to be yourself.' And then at least three other people assumed I was gay before I could even correct them."
Ross was trying not to laugh. "Chandler, you wore a pink shirt."
"It was salmon! And since when does shirt color determine sexuality?"
"You also called another guy's suit 'fabulous,'" Joey added helpfully.
"Because it was! That doesn't make me—" Chandler stopped, running his hands through his hair. "Do I project gay? Is there something about my face? My mannerisms? Should I be walking differently?"
Monica reached over and patted his hand. "Chandler, you're fine. You're just... sensitive. And well-dressed. And you appreciate theater."
"Those are all normal things!"
"They are," Phoebe agreed. "But sometimes people make assumptions. It doesn't mean anything about who you actually are."
Chandler looked genuinely distressed. I made him a coffee with blue light active—confidence boost, helping him remember that other people's perceptions didn't define him.
When I brought it over, he accepted it absently, still spiraling.
"You're fine the way you are," I said simply, then went back to the counter.
Chandler blinked, seeming surprised that the coffee guy had opinions. He drank it anyway.
Five minutes later, his shoulders had relaxed. The spiral stopped. He was still concerned, but not spiraling into full crisis.
Rachel was telling a story about her grandmother to make Monica feel less alone. Ross was staring into space, processing. Joey was eating a muffin someone had left behind.
They were coping. Together. In their chaotic, loving way.
Monica - 3:17 PM (Two Days Later - After the Funeral)
Monica Geller stood in her kitchen making sandwiches for the post-funeral gathering and thought about her grandmother.
Nana had been fierce. Funny. Completely unsentimental about death—she'd planned her own funeral years ago, including the music and the flowers and a specific request for "good wine, not the cheap stuff."
The funeral had been beautiful and terrible. Ross had literally fallen into the open grave while trying to comfort their mother. The family had laughed and cried and dealt with death the way they always dealt with everything: too loudly, too emotionally, too much.
And through it all, Monica had thought about the coffee.
Gunther had made her coffee the day Nana died. Simple gesture. Didn't try to fix anything, didn't offer empty platitudes, just provided comfort in a cup.
She'd drunk it and felt steadier. Not okay—you didn't get okay that fast—but capable of functioning.
He'd done that for Ross too. Green light in both cups, though Monica couldn't have explained how she knew that. Just an instinct that the coffee had been made with extra care.
He pays attention, she thought, arranging turkey slices. More than people realize.
The barista at Central Perk was quiet and competent and somehow always knew what people needed before they asked.
Monica appreciated that. In a world where her mother criticized everything she did and her friends were chaotically supportive but rarely practical, Gunther's quiet competence was refreshing.
She made a mental note to tip him better. And maybe actually learn more about him beyond his excellent coffee-making skills.
Because people who paid that kind of attention deserved to be noticed back.
Sunday afternoon, the gang gathered at Central Perk for the post-funeral debrief.
Ross was telling the story of falling into the grave with increasing dramatic embellishment. Each retelling made him sound more heroic and less clumsy.
"And then I grabbed the edge of the coffin to pull myself up," he said, gesturing wildly, "and the funeral director just looked at me like I'd committed sacrilege."
"You basically did," Chandler pointed out. "Nana's final resting place and you turned it into a slapstick routine."
"I didn't mean to fall in!"
"But you did. Impressively. I heard the thud from six feet away."
The table erupted in laughter—not cruel, just release. The kind of laughter that comes after grief, when you need to remember that life continues and sometimes it's absurd.
Monica was smiling genuinely for the first time in days. "Nana would have loved this. She always said funerals were too serious."
"To Nana," Rachel raised her coffee cup. "Who died twice because once wasn't dramatic enough."
"To Nana," they echoed, raising their cups.
I watched from behind the counter and felt the weight of their grief transforming into something lighter. Not gone—grief didn't work like that—but manageable.
They'd supported each other through death. Through awkward family dynamics and falling into graves and identity crises. Through all of it, they'd stayed together.
And I'd been there on the edges, providing what I could. Coffee and calm and small moments of support.
Monica caught my eye from across the room and nodded—a thank you that didn't need words.
Ross waved me over during a lull in conversation.
"Gunther, you got a minute?"
I walked over to their table. "What's up?"
"I just wanted to say thanks. For the coffee on Thursday. I don't know how you knew, but it helped."
"Just doing my job."
"It was more than that." Ross looked sincere. "You didn't try to fix anything or say something comforting. You just... provided. That mattered."
The whole table was listening now. I felt exposed under their collective attention.
"You're welcome," I said simply.
"Plus," Chandler added, "you backed me up on the gay thing. Which I appreciate even though I'm still not entirely convinced I don't somehow project homosexuality."
"You don't," Phoebe said firmly. "You project anxiety and sarcasm. Very different energy."
The conversation spiraled into debate about energy projection and Monica's insistence that everyone was overthinking everything. I went back to the counter, but something had shifted.
They'd thanked me. Multiple times. Had included me in their grief process, even peripherally.
I was becoming real to them. Not just the barista. Not just furniture.
An actual person who existed in their world.
The rest of October unfolded in grief's aftermath. The gang came to Central Perk more frequently, seeking comfort in routine. I served coffee and listened to their stories and learned more about their inner lives.
Monica talked about her grandmother's recipe collection and how she wanted to recreate some of the dishes. Ross processed his feelings about mortality and fatherhood in long, rambling speeches that the others pretended to listen to. Chandler dealt with his identity crisis through increasingly elaborate jokes.
And I was there. Making drinks. Offering quiet support. Building relationships one small interaction at a time.
Jessica—the Fateful Encounter woman—returned twice more before the month ended. Each time, we exchanged pleasantries. Each time, the potential hung in the air between us.
I still hadn't decided whether to pursue it. The power would expire on November 6th, and I'd either use it or lose it.
But that was a future problem. For now, I focused on the present.
Caroline Walsh had introduced me to two more of her Wall Street colleagues. The theater crowd continued to frequent Central Perk regularly. My savings had grown to $1,340—still laughably short of my goal, but trending upward.
The gang knew my name. Some of them sought me out specifically. Phoebe watched me with knowing curiosity. Monica acknowledged my help. Ross thanked me sincerely.
I was building something real. Slowly. Patiently.
Death had visited their group and I'd been there in the aftermath, providing what comfort I could.
It wasn't dramatic. Wasn't heroic. Just consistent presence and good coffee.
But sometimes, that was exactly what people needed.
I closed Central Perk on October 31st—Halloween, though the gang had gone to some party I wasn't invited to—and walked home through costumed crowds.
One month and sixteen days since waking up in this world. Forty-six days of coffee-making and power-testing and careful relationship building.
The journey was long. The progress was slow.
But I was getting there. One cup, one conversation, one small kindness at a time.
November would bring new challenges. New opportunities. New choices to make.
For tonight, I just walked home through Halloween chaos, thinking about Nana's funeral and Ross's gratitude and Monica's nod of thanks.
Tomorrow, I'd make more coffee. Help more customers. Take another small step forward.
It was enough.
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