Dinner is just a slice of bread and water. No garnish. No jam. Just plain bread that's a little stale and the kind of water that tastes faintly like the pipes it's run through. I eat slowly, trying to pretend the chewing motion satisfies something deeper than my stomach.
After I'm done, I sit on the edge of my mattress with my phone in hand, debating whether or not to text Noah. I don't want to be annoying. It's only my first day. But Yuna did say to report my progress.
So I type:
i survived day one, didn't burn the cafe. yuna was patient, i'm learning
Not even twenty seconds later, my phone vibrates. Incoming call from Noah.
I blink at the screen, startled, then swipe to answer. "Hello?"
"You're fast," Noah says, voice low and steady like warm tea. "Or maybe I'm just psychic."
"I didn't expect you to call," I say, shifting my weight.
"You sent a report. It's polite to respond," he replies. "How was it?"
I lean back against the wall. "Okay, I think. I didn't make coffee or anything yet. Yuna said I'll just learn the basics for now."
"That's fair. First week is all about learning how not to burn the place down. Don't burn the cafe yet, we're low on insurance money."
I let out a tired chuckle. "No promise. Anyway, Yuna mentioned shifts. I'll be working mornings with her for now?"
"Correct. 8 AM to 4 PM. Once you pass the first week, we'll rotate. I'll find the good arrangement shift for you."
"I see." I pause. "Where were you today? Didn't see you around cafe."
"Had a few errands to run," he says. There's a pause. Then, "I tend to disappear. Don't take it personally."
"I wasn't. I just .…" I trail off.
"Missed me?" he asks while chuckling.
I flick my tongue. "Not even close."
He grins louder. "Ah, so you were just curious."
"Yeah."
A beat of silence. Then Noah says, "You did well today. Yuna said you listened and asked the right questions."
I smile faintly. "She's good at explaining."
"She is."
There's another silence—comfortable this time.
Then Noah speaks again. "By the way, your badge name. Want to use your real one or something else?"
I blink. "Badge name?"
"For your apron," he says, "everyone at the cafe wears one. They all use different name from their real names. But you can use your real name. If you want."
"I didn't know that was an option."
"It is," Noah says. "The cafe's name isn't just aesthetic. The Personas. It's a place where you can be whoever you want. Everyone who works there has the freedom to show or hide whatever part of themselves they choose. You can be new version of yourself, another self, or someone in between. You can choose who you want to be."
My mind spins. This is interesting. "So … Yuna isn't her real name?"
"Nope," he says, "neither are Paul or Chloe. Those are their personas. Their 'selves' in the cafe space. It helps create a boundary between life outside and life within cafe.
"That's … kind of wild," I murmur, "but it makes sense now."
"Outside this place," Noah says, "life wears you down. You're someone's son, someone's ex, someone's mistake. But inside, you choose your role. Your identity. It's not about lying—it's about breathing differently—freely. Because you can be whoever you want."
His words hit something inside me I didn't know was aching. It's strange. It should feel off, maybe even fake. But it doesn't. It feels ... safe. Like, maybe there's a place in this world where I don't have to carry the weight of my past, my name, my family's disgrace. Maybe, I can just be someone who makes coffee, wipes down tables, and tries to smile again. Not a fallen heir from the crumbled Evergreen Palace.
I stare at the ceiling. "Then ... I guess I'll choose one too."
"Got anything in mind?"
I hesitate. Then I say, quietly, "Knox."
"Knox," Noah repeats. "Nice. Strong name. Loyal. Any story behind it?"
I swallow. "It was my dog's name. Died last year."
There's a long pause on the line. Then, soft as the first drop of rain, Noah says, "Then it's a good choice. You're keeping something you loved with you."
Something warms in my chest.
We lapse into silence again, but it doesn't feel empty. It feels easy. Whenever I'm with Noah—even if now we're just calling—I always feel this easy feeling. Like, there's no pressure under my back.
Then Noah says, "You don't talk much about yourself."
"There's not much to say," I lie.
"Hmm." He doesn't press, but his hum carries a kind of knowing weight.
I glance at my reflection in the dark window. My face looks older somehow. Tired. "Can I be honest?"
"Please."
"This, all of this feels like I'm pretending. Like I'm play-acting a version of myself that hasn't fallen apart."
"That's okay," he says without missing a beat. "Pretending is a step closer to becoming."
I close my eyes. "You sound like a philosopher."
"Yuna says I sound like a weathered grandpa."
That makes me laugh—too loud, too real. "You don't look like one. You look like a mysterious guy who probably writes poetry in abandoned bookstores."
"Disappointing to know I'm a fraud, then," he says dryly. "I don't even know poetry."
We laugh again.
Then I say, "Thanks. For this call. It's … I don't know. Calming. Like I have someone to talk to."
"You do," he says, "you can always call me."
The words are simple. But they hit me deep.
After a moment, I murmur, "See you tomorrow, then?"
"Bright and early," Noah says, "sleep well, Knox."
I end the call and stare at my phone for a while.
Knox.
I whisper it aloud.
It feels like stepping into armor I didn't know I had permission to wear.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be building something.
Something new.
Something that's mine.
But the way Noah called my name—my persona name—is ticklish. It's nonsense. Well, at least now I don't have to tell him my real name. Cassian Vale isn't here. It's just me, Knox.