Morning light filters through the slats of my cheap blinds, soft and gray. Not the kind of light that gently wakes you—more like one that reminds you time is moving whether you're ready or not.
My back aches from sleeping in the same clothes. My throat's dry, and there's a dull weight behind my eyes. The sleeping pills did their job—too well, maybe. I sit up slowly and take a moment to gather myself before swinging my legs off the bed. The floor is cold. Of course it is.
I go through the motions: brush teeth in the chipped bathroom sink, splash my face with water that never really turns warm. Pull on a clean shirt—wrinkled from being folded under other wrinkled clothes—and comb my fingers through my hair. It's not much of a routine. Just enough to pretend I'm still functioning.
My stomach grumbles, but there's nothing in the cupboard besides crackers and instant coffee. I skip breakfast.
Outside, the sky's a flat, unbothered gray. I make my way down the creaky stairs and walk the two blocks to the nearest busway station. I scan my card and squeeze into a space near the back. No seat today. My fingers curl around the pole as the bus rattles forward, carrying me toward the hospital.
Taking the bus was new for me. I had to watch tutorial videos just to figure it out—and I still took the wrong route more than five times in the first month. All my life, I relied on a private driver. I never imagined my world would be flipped upside down like this.
I don't visit Mom every day—can't afford to emotionally or financially—but today feels like a day I should. Maybe because of what I'm about to do. Maybe because part of me still wants approval, even if she's not always fully there to give it.
The hospital hasn't changed. It smells the same: disinfectant, plastic, too-cold air. I sign in and take the familiar path to her floor. Room 302. Second door on the right. A nurse nods at me as I pass.
Mom is sitting by the window, bundled in a hospital-issued cardigan. Her hair is neatly combed today. She turns when I enter. I can't help but smile. This might be a good day. At least, she looks better than yesterday.
"Hi, Mom," I say softly.
She smiles. Faint, but real. "You came."
"I did." I sit beside her, careful not to shift the thin blanket on her lap. "How are you? Have you eaten?"
Since she just nods without answering, I continue, "Anyway, I met someone yesterday." She doesn't react right away. Just watches me, head tilted. "Not like that," I add quickly, "just a guy at a cafe. He told me about a job."
Her fingers twitch slightly, as if trying to reach for something invisible.
"I might take it. It's nothing big. Just … something. A place to start. For someone still trying to adapt to everything."
"You're working?" she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
"Maybe." I nod. "Trying."
We sit there in silence for a while. I tell her a bit more—carefully, lightly. About the cafe. About the flyer. About the guy named Noah, though I don't explain him because I'm not sure how to. She listens, drifting in and out, but when I say I might work at a place called The Personas, her lips curl up again.
"That sounds like a place for actors," she says.
"Yeah." I smile.
I stay another fifteen minutes, then tell her I'll come again soon. She nods, already fading again into whatever quiet place she disappears to when I'm not there.
I take the same route as I took yesterday. I walk the rest of the way, nerves chewing at the edge of my stomach. The Personas looks the same. The chalkboard sign is still smudged with yesterday's specials. I push the door open.
The inside is warm, filled with the hum of low jazz and the scent of espresso and toasted cinnamon. A few early customers linger at tables. I scan the room.
No Noah.
Behind the counter stands a girl with honey-blonde curls tied up messily, wearing an oversized black apron with a pin that reads "YUNA" in sparkly letters. She beams the second she sees me.
"Morning! You're new," she chirps, "looking for someone?"
"Uh, maybe," I say, "Noah?"
She lights up in recognition. "Ah, Noah. He hasn't come in yet. He's kind of … a drifter? You never know if he's gonna show up at ten or three or not at all."
Figures. I hover awkwardly, unsure where to stand. Yuna gestures toward the bar.
"You here about the barista job?" she asks, already reaching for an extra apron. "Or did he just charm you into walking in?"
"A little of both," I mutter.
She laughs. "Classic Noah."
I glance around the cafe. The jazz track shifts. The espresso machine hisses in the background. It's warm in here—cozy in a way that doesn't feel like it's trying too hard. A girl sketches in the corner. An old man reads a newspaper by the window.
"You can wait if you want," Yuna says, "Noah might drop in eventually. Meanwhile, I can give you the basics if you're serious."
I hesitate, then nod. "Thanks, I think I'll wait."
She grins, like it's the best answer she's heard all day. "You seem too cool to be a barista."
I tilt my head. "What does it mean?"
"Your outfit. Though wrinkled and needs to be ironed, it's branded, no? Seems expensive. And your face? Damn, are you a model?" She chatters with excitement.
Yuna ... doesn't know me? Really? Sure, I changed my hairstyle, but my face is still recognizable. Did she pretend just to be nice? I scan her face. Full of life and honesty. I don't think she lied. Maybe she really has no idea. Somehow, I feel relief.
It gives me a strange sense of comfort—realizing that not everyone here knows who I am. Is Noah the same? Does he recognize me or not? I'm still intrigued. Everything about him feels like a piece of a puzzle I haven't solved yet.
"I'm not," I answer with a chuckle.
She looks disappointed. "Ah, what a shame! With a face and body like you, you can apply to become a model instead of barista!"
No. I'll never return to that high-class circle again—not that they'd welcome me, after everything that's happened.