The cold bites harder once I step out of The Personas—the cafe's name, like the city is reminding me where I belong now. Or where I don't.
The sun has already dipped below the skyline, leaving behind a bruised smear of purple and orange that quickly fades into gray. Streetlights flicker on one by one, casting halos on the pavement slick from earlier rain. I stuff my hands deep into my coat pockets and start walking with no real urgency—what am I rushing toward, anyway? Cold, lonely small place where no one's waiting for me?
I pass a boutique with glass walls and mannequins dressed in clean, seasonal layers. The kind of clothes I used to wear. Designer, imported, absurdly priced. There was a time I didn't even think twice about buying a five-hundred-dollar scarf just because it matched my coat. Now, I hesitate over bus fare.
That version of me—the heir to Evergreen Palace, son of the mighty CEO Isaac Vale—feels like a character from someone else's novel. I used to walk through mirrored elevator halls like I owned the world. Spoke to shareholders twice my age with confidence. Toasted champagne on yachts. My biggest worry back then was whether the media would notice if I switched brands mid-contract.
Now, I flinch at the sound of news reports.
A gust of wind slips past my collar and I shiver, quickening my pace as I near the busway station. I scan my card, wait behind a couple of teenagers huddled close together, and finally climb aboard a mostly empty bus. The heaters are on, humming faintly, but the chill clings to me like static.
I sink into a seat by the window. The city blurs as we start moving—rows of buildings, neon signs, the occasional blur of a cyclist weaving between traffic. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. Not a stranger, exactly, but someone in-between. Someone still peeling off the skin of a life that doesn't fit anymore.
When I get off, the streets are darker. Quieter. This part of the city doesn't hum—it creaks. The buildings are older, paint peeling from walls, flickering hallway lights. I walk up to my building and climb the narrow stairs to the third floor. My key sticks in the lock for a second before it clicks open.
The smell hits me first—old wood, lingering traces of instant noodles, damp winter air. I step inside and shut the door behind me. My rented place is a studio, barely thirty square meters—even smaller than my closet room. There's a single bed pressed against the wall, a small desk cluttered with papers and unopened mail, and a kitchenette with a chipped sink.
I used to sleep on a king-sized mattress in a temperature-controlled suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Now I get woken up by stray cats screeching in the alley and neighbors arguing through thin walls.
But I can afford it—for now. Barely.
I kick off my shoes, hang my coat on a rusty hook, and collapse into the squeaky chair by the desk. My fingers are numb. I rub them together and glance at the heating knob. Still broken. I'll have to ask the landlord again. Not that he'll do anything.
On the desk is a flyer I tore off from the cafe wall. "Part-time Barista Wanted. Inquire Within."
I read it twice, then toss it back onto the table like it burned me. I throw myself on the small bed and close my eyes.
Me. A barista.
I know nothing about coffee beyond ordering it. What if I mess up? What if I burn something? Spill on a customer? What if someone recognizes me? Will they sneer, laugh? Take pictures? Splash my name across headlines—again?
But I also remember what Noah said. This place doesn't care about resumes or your past. Just consistency.
Noah.
The way he just ... showed up. Sat down without asking. Saw through me without pressing. He didn't ask for my name, didn't recoil when I said I was job-hunting. Didn't gawk at my family history. Just watched. Listened.
And then pointed out the flyer like it meant something. Like I meant something.
I don't know if he works there. He didn't say it directly, but the way the man inside nodded at him—he's clearly not a stranger. Maybe it's his relative's place. Maybe he just helps out. Maybe he's hiding, too—like me, from reality and reporters.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling, old water stains marking shapes I've already memorized. My legs ache. My chest feels hollow. This isn't sustainable. I can't keep floating between hospital visits and memory hauntings.
At some point, I need to plant my feet somewhere.
Maybe this cafe, with its old jazz and quiet corners, could be the place. Not forever. But long enough to breathe. Long enough to start something again.
And if Noah's there ….
I don't know what he is yet. Not a friend. Not quite a stranger either. A thread, maybe. One that pulls me forward.
I take a long breath.
The next morning, I'll go back. I'll ask about the job. Not because I think I'm suited for it. Not because I suddenly care about latte art. But because I need something. Anything. And maybe, just maybe, this place will let me begin again.
I get up and search something on my drawer. Sleeping pills will be my dinner again tonight. I take three at once. I want to have a very deep sleep. The only time I can escape from my broken life.
After swallowing the pills in one go, I lay back on bed, not even considering change my clothes. I reach for the flyer, staring at it for a solid seven minutes.
I don't even know which stage of griefs I'm in right now. Everything happens so fast in blurry motion. I don't have enough time to process. If my psychiatrist were here, he'd probably diagnose me with depression.
If only humans were like phones—able to install-uninstall memories, skills, and anything else ... would it be better? Maybe it would. Just do the factory reset and the phone is like a brand-new.
If only life came with a reset button ....