The morning light filters through the half-cracked blinds, painting soft stripes across my cluttered studio. I pull on a polo shirt—navy, plain, one of the few non-logoed ones I still own—and a pair of long pants that feel too formal for this place. I stare at myself in the cracked mirror, running fingers through my hair. I don't look like the old me. But I don't quite look like this new version either. I'm somewhere in between, wearing borrowed time and fraying pride.
Most of my wardrobe still screams wealth—tailored jackets, dress shoes that never touched dirt, cashmere sweaters I haven't dared wear in this part of the city. If I last another month like this, I might have to start selling them off, one by one. Start with the shoes, maybe. Then the bags. The phone might be last. It's the latest model, still flawless. But it feels like carrying a shard from a world that's already closed its gates on me.
I zip up my bag and head out, walking the narrow streets until I reach the busway stop. The air smells like burnt bread and car exhaust. It's a relief, in a strange way—honest smells, no pretense. The ride is quiet.
By the time I arrive at The Personas, it's five minutes to eight.
Yuna is already there, arranging pastries behind the glass counter. She beams when she sees me. "Morning, new guy. You look awake, that's a good sign."
I offer a sheepish smile. "Noah's not here yet?"
She shakes her head, tying her hair back into a ponytail. "Nope. Probably won't be in today, actually. He doesn't always show up unless something breaks or catches fire."
I blink. "Then … who's going to train me?"
She snorts. "Who do you think? Come on, I've done this with Chloe and Paul. You're not special."
I follow her behind the counter, where she hands me a plain white apron. It's stiff, and it smells faintly of detergent. "Noah said once you survive the first week, you get the real one."
"What's the real one look like?"
"Darker, softer, with a little embroidered logo. Symbol of survival." She winks. "Don't screw up too badly and you'll earn it."
I nod, slipping it over my head. It hangs a bit awkwardly, like the weight of the unknown.
"Alright," she says, stretching her arms, "lesson one: shift schedule. This place opens at 8 AM and closes at midnight. We work in two shifts. You and I take the morning—7 AM to 4 PM, Chloe and Paul do the night shift. Next week, we'll change the shift into night shift, and they'll take the morning shift. I kinda like that rule, to be honest."
"Got it," I say, "that's … manageable."
"For now," she smirks. "There's suppliers for the pastries and they usually drop in at 7.15 AM, so you have to at least arrive here at 7 AM."
I nod twice. "How about lunch break?"
"You have one hour of lunch break, take turns with your partner shift—which is me. But don't worry, you can make and eat breakfast with anything here, even for lunch. Noah won't cost you," she says, then pats my shoulder. "But let's be good employees who know how to thank him by eating with some limits, yeah?"
Yuna, despite her cheerful side, has a good heart. She doesn't forget who helped her. I think I wanna be her friend.
"You're not jumping into coffee-making yet. First, you observe. Ask questions. I'll explain everything as we go. Sound good?"
I nod again.
She claps her hands. "Okay. First rule: never run out of stock. Even if we're drowning in customers, check things—cups, beans, milk, sugar, pastries, all of it. If anything's low, flag it. You don't want to be the guy who has to say 'we're out of espresso' during rush hour."
I grimace. "Noted."
She leads me to the back, showing the stockroom. It's neatly organized—shelves with labeled boxes, fridges humming with cartons and jugs. "You'll check this every morning before opening, and during your breaks if it's slow. Always restock the front when you can."
I listen, eyes scanning every label, every layout. It's a lot, but not impossible.
Back behind the counter, she gestures at the espresso machine like it's a sacred relic. "This here is the beast. Don't touch it yet. Just watch me today. Tomorrow, if you're confident, I'll let you pull a shot."
I nod, suppressing a gulp.
"Also," she adds, "greet every customer, even the weird ones. We're small. Personal touches matter. You don't have to fake it, just don't look like you want to die."
"I'll try," I say dryly.
She grins. "Good enough."
As she works, I trail her like a quiet shadow. She shows me how to prep the cups, how to handle pastries with tongs instead of fingers, where the backup stirrers are kept. Her movements are fast but practiced, a rhythm I know I'll take weeks to learn.
During slow moments, she chatters. "Chloe's a perfectionist, so don't move her stuff. Paul's lazy but makes great iced lattes. I'm the glue, obviously."
"And Noah?" I ask.
She smiles, softer now. "Noah's … the soul of this place. He listens when no one else does. You probably won't realize what he's doing until you look back. That's his way."
I mull that over, then glance at the clock. It's barely ten. Still hours to go, but time feels oddly gentle here. Less crushing.
A few customers come in—students, a tired mother with a baby stroller, a delivery guy. I watch Yuna handle them all with the same warmth and ease. She jokes, remembers names, sprinkles tiny compliments like sugar over a foam cap. It's … kind of beautiful. I have a sense that I will love this job.
Around noon, she hands me a sandwich from the fridge. "Lunch. On the house for your first week. Don't get used to it."
"Thanks."
She munches on a biscuit and keeps moving. "I had breakfast before you came, so you eat alone today. I'll hover."
I sit at a corner stool, unwrapping the sandwich. It's simple—egg, spinach, a little cheese—but it tastes grounding. Real.
"Feeling overwhelmed yet?" she asks.
"A bit."
"Good. That means you're paying attention."
A bell rings as a new customer enters, and she waves over her shoulder. "Duty calls. Holler if the sandwich fights back."
She leaves me there to finish, and I do, slowly. It's been a long time since a morning felt this … manageable. Not joyful, not quite. But within reach.
When the clock hits four, I'm exhausted in a new way. Not mental fatigue or emotional collapse—just the ache of standing, watching, trying not to mess up.
Yuna pats my shoulder as we clean up. "Not bad for day one. Go home, sleep, come back tomorrow. I won't go easy again."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
She tosses her apron in the laundry bin. "Good. Oh—and tell Noah you survived. He likes progress reports."
I nod, grab my bag, and step out.
The sun has shifted west, throwing gold light across the sidewalk. For the first time in what feels like months, I feel the barest trace of routine beginning to form. Something ordinary. Something human.
Maybe I can keep up with this. Maybe, just maybe, this is the kind of life that can grow from ruins.