Illustration by Shenuka Corea/The Gazelle

I put the pro- in procrastinate. Therefore, come Saturday evening, I have an unstarted — unless you count the header — five-page essay and a couple of other to-be-completed assignments, all due the next day. My only savior? The black elixir of the gods: coffee. The issue with that? I am five days into my 10-day caffeine rehab.

I head to the library, supposedly the place of ultimate productivity, the holder of all knowledge, the room of shushed voices met with looks of annoyance, the place where it’s always cold because apparently books should be refrigerated. I sit down at one of the circular tables and pull out my laptop. It’s midterm season, so I am surrounded by the sound of scribbling pens, frantic typing, sighs and people sipping from coffee cups. I stare at the cursed cursor on my laptop screen, blinking at me, ticking like a clock, reminding me of the fast-approaching deadlines.

Why do they call them deadlines? I always wish I were dead long before I reach them. I’m in need of a lifeline. My head turns instinctively in the direction of the Library Café; I can feel the warmth of its cardboard cups in my hands, the slightly bitter liquid running past my lips, rushing down my throat. Paula, focus. I start writing. Right there on the screen, staring back at me, is that one word: Coffee. I sip sadly on my carton of apple juice and erase it.

I throw back my head, spinning in my chair, trying to think of a starting sentence. Why are there so many lights scattered across the ceiling? It’s almost as if they were intentionally placed there to create the impression of a star-filled sky, to try to get us to fall asleep. It’s almost as if they want us to drink coffee. That’s it, I’ve figured it out. It’s a conspiracy. They made a café right next to the library, and then designed the library as a sleep-inducing environment so we would be forced to buy coffee in order to stay awake.

I’m losing focus. I came to the library to concentrate and that’s what I’m going to do. A walk. Yes, that’s what I need.

“What will it be tonight?” the barista asks as I walk past the Library Café.

“Oh, I’m good,” I say, grinning on the outside but trying to hold back my tears.

You’re exaggerating, Paula, you may say. Nobody cries over coffee. But you’re wrong. I’ve cried over coffee. Literally. One night, my tears fell into the brown liquid, turning my plain Caramel Latté into a classy Salted Caramel Latté. I’ve cried over spilled coffee as well. And now I am about to cry over the fact that I have forbidden myself from touching the one thing that truly makes Saadiyat an island of happiness.

I trudge back to the library, and faced again with the seemingly synchronized acoustic performance of the coffee-sippers, grab my bag and head toward the only other place where I can somewhat maintain focus without falling asleep: the Academic Resource Center. I open my laptop yet again, and just as I am about to fully dedicate myself to writing my paper, I hear those enchanting words: “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee from the coffee machine.”

I put on my headphones, trying to ignore the whizzing sound of the machine. This is one of the most difficult types of rehab. Constantly surrounded by the one thing you are trying to avoid, constantly hearing that one word, constantly possessing a means of obtaining it, constantly in danger of relapsing.

I look sadly at my coffee-stained keyboard. Due to my recklessness, I am now forced to paste the letter “o” whenever I have to use it; the key no longer works after I shared half an Americano with it. That was also the point at which I started realizing the extent of my coffee addiction.

All I can think of is the word coffee. I used to joke that coffee runs through my veins instead of blood, but now it actually seems as if my body has come to depend on it, and I am no longer capable of functioning without it. Am I slowly dying? Is it time to start writing my will? Forget about my assignments; who will get to keep my belongings if I die?

And that is how, at 3 a.m., I find myself with a 1000-word will describing exactly how the items I own will be distributed among my family members, friends, classmates and even my dog. One item, however, stays off the list: my coffee machine. “That is coming with me to my grave,” I mention at the end of my will, “buried next to my body.” That is the one thing I have to take with me into the afterlife.