Chapter Text
“Hey, can you close up the store? Ryan and I have to leave early."
Your boss’s voice reaches you from afar, pulling you away from your work. You cast a tired glance at your wristwatch: it’s just past 10 p.m., and the diner is now empty.
"Yeah, don’t worry," you reply, though you don’t turn to face him. You don’t want him to catch the discreetly annoyed expression on your face.
"Perfect! I love Europeans, always available!"
You roll your eyes in irritation. You’d love to fire back with something like ‘Available, my ass’ , shouted loud enough to echo, but you can’t risk losing your job over a moment of disrespect. You’ve been here for about three months, and this dump of a "restaurant" is the only thing keeping you afloat, paying just enough to cover the rent for your new shoebox of an apartment.
You stifle a disillusioned sigh. You left Europe chasing the dream of a better life abroad. But California isn’t living up to the fantasy, not with a job that demands your presence practically around the clock.
"Make sure you lock the doors when you're done!" and these are the last words your boss tells you.
You press your lips into a thin line. He never says goodnight.
The front door opens, then closes a few moments later. You glance up just in time to see your boss leaving with your coworker. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it definitely won’t be the last.
You remember the first time it did. Anxiety and despair had taken over both your mind and body. Facing the remaining tasks alone hadn’t exactly been easy. Worse, you’d felt a gnawing fear that someone with bad intentions might be lurking nearby. That night, that feeling had haunted you.
Now, though, it’s practically routine. There’s no fear anymore, just an overwhelming urge to smash the place to pieces, just to let off some steam. Sometimes it feels like your boss sees you as nothing more than a workhorse, good only for slogging through endless chores. He never seems to consider that maybe, just maybe, you have a life outside these walls too.
You let out a heavy sigh and reach for a broom and dustpan to tackle the mess the customers left behind. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll be done.
You begin to clean the place, but your mind is already drifting toward the bed in your tiny studio apartment.
You move like an automaton, broom handle gripped tightly in your hands. In the end, that’s what you are, a sack of flesh programmed to complete tasks, stripped of thought, running on empty.
In that town, there is little good. People are all about appearances: they seem opulent, but in truth, they have nothing. The conversations you overhear are meaningless. You've heard customers discussing what they consider serious problems, like what kind of clothing to wear to a school party.
You snort at the memory, dragging the broom lazily across the floor . You wish you had problems like that. Your chest tightens. Still, you cling to the hope that someday, your life will change.
You're reluctantly sweeping the floor of the customer area. But when your eyes land on one of the tables, you notice that Ryan didn't even have the courtesy to wipe them down.
Your body trembles with pure, unfiltered anger.
"Great," you mutter, clenching your fists around the broom handle. "Sure. Let's just leave it all to me! I'm a bloody vampire I don't need to rest!"
Your coworker, you can't stand him. The feeling is mutual, you can tell by the contemptuous looks he usually gives you and the not-so-funny jokes he makes toward you. You don't know how many times you've suppressed the urge to yell at him. Ryan does the bare minimum, and you assume the boss keeps him around just because he's good-looking and knows how to charm the customers. Some girls even leave him their phone numbers, every now and then. You almost feel sorry for them, no one deserves an asshole like him.
You leave the broom leaning against the counter as you rush to grab a rag and some degreaser.
"Stupid Ryan."
You growl the name through clenched teeth, scrubbing the table with such force the rag squeals against the surface. Crumbs scatter across the floor. Maybe you should have checked the tables before sweeping.
"Stupid boss."
The words hiss from your lips as you attack the next table, spraying the detergent with a fury that makes the bottle wheeze. You don’t even care anymore if you’re overdoing it.
"Stupid job."
The rag slaps down, heavy with grease and frustration. Your chest tightens, your shoulders are trembling from more than just exertion. Emotions you’ve tried to ignore for weeks are now pressing against your ribs, trying to claw their way out.
You’re cracking.
You thought distance would fix things. That leaving everything behind - your home, your family, your past - would give you a clean slate. But this isn’t reinvention. It’s suffocation.
You grip the table edge, knuckles white.
"Stupid life!"
You scream it, hoarse, raw. The rag flies from your hand, arcs through the air, and slaps against the front door with a sickening splat.
You barely have time to curse yourself before the cloth starts sliding down the glass, leaving a greasy trail behind it.
You stare at it. Breathing hard. Eyes burning.
One of your eyebrows twitches.
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. You need to calm down.
Why isn't anything going right? You're trying to start over, but it's so hard to move on, especially when you have no one. You would love to call your mother, to hear her soft, reassuring voice... but your pride won't let you. You want to prove to her - to yourself - that you're an adult. Besides, if she knew how worn down you were, she'd beg you to come home.
When you open your eyes again, you're staring into empty space.
You feel so useless.
“Why…” you whisper, choking on your words as a sob escapes. “Why did I ever leave home...”
The words taste like regret on your tongue, bitter and heavy. Your eyes sting, and tears threaten to spill, but you’re too tired to fight them. Lately, crying has become a part of you, something your body does when it can’t scream.
You sniff, wiping your sleeve across your face, but it barely slows the flood of tears. You dig around in your apron, fingers trembling as you search for a handkerchief, a napkin, anything.
You're glad no one’s here to see this. Especially not Ryan. If he saw you like this, red-eyed and broken, he’d never let you forget it. He’d store it like ammunition, something to toss in your face whenever you dared to talk back. This thought scares you.
Drowning in your self-pity, all you hear is your own breathing. It's overwhelming, and the door opening barely breaks through.
"Wow! What a wonderful display of emotions!"
A loud voice cuts through the diner, making you jump.
Huh?
"Is that how you guys do it around here?"
Your head snaps toward the sound, blood running cold.
A young man is standing at the entrance, holding the door open with one hand, a smartphone in the other. He’s staring at you with a delighted grin.
You blink at him, too stunned to speak. He's dressed... extravagantly. Expensive-looking clothes, sure, but the fuchsia pink and sequins assault your eyes.
"Burgerpants got your tongue?"
Huh??
You blink rapidly, mouth parting uselessly.
"B-Burger... Pants?" you stammer, thick disbelief in your voice. You shake your head, trying to reset your brain, like you didn't just have a full-blown breakdown.
"The place is closed, sir. Please leave-"
To your horror, the man strides inside anyway, letting the door swing shut behind him.
"Closed? What are you talking about, honey? The door's open and the lights are on!"
You take an involuntary step back as he starts wandering the diner, spinning in place like he’s never seen a dingy little restaurant before. He lifts the smartphone to his face, beaming.
"My dearest friends! Welcome to another episode of 'Human Pity and Its Many Forms'!"
What the heck?!
Your mouth drops open. But the shock quickly hardens into anger. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. This night just won't end. And now, as if summoned by your fraying sanity, there’s this lunatic doing some kind of livestream on who-knows-what platform.
You watch him traipse around the diner like he owns the place, and worst of all, he's filming you now.
Wiping your face quickly, you feel your limbs shake from the adrenaline.
"What the hell are you doing?! I said the diner’s closed! And get that thing out of my face!"
"Yes! Yes! Keep going, darling!" He waves you, gleefully. "Unleash your most ardent emotions!"
You don't even have the time to react that he strides toward you without warning until he’s way too close, so close you can see every glittering sequin stitched onto his ridiculous jacket.
You jerk back instinctively, bumping into a chair.
“Oh, fantastic!” he exclaims, flipping the camera to selfie mode so that both your faces appear on screen. “This one’s a natural, folks! Raw! Vulnerable!”
You just stand there, frozen, your mind blank with horror.
“He's crazy, mentally depraved!” you think.
He thrusts the phone practically against your nose. Your eyes catch a blur of keysmashed comments racing up the screen. So you were right, he is livestreaming.
"Tell us, dear struggler," he purrs in a dramatic TV-voice. "What flavor of existential dread are you experiencing tonight?"
You recoil, heart slamming against your ribs.
"Get that thing out of my face!" you snap.
But he’s already spinning around like a game show host, narrating to his invisible audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen! A wild example of youthful despair, caught in its natural habitat! A greasy diner in the middle of the night! How brilliant!"
You seriously consider grabbing the broom and beating him with it.
You're fuming.
As if the wretched boss and that insufferable coworker of yours weren’t enough. As if the snobbish, loud-mouthed customers trashing the diner like it’s their personal dumpster weren’t already testing your last nerve. No.
There always has to be a cherry on top, and this time, it's a maniac in glitter thinking he's a social media god.
You just want to scrub the place down and pass out. You haven’t slept properly in days, and tomorrow the diner is open 24 hours!
“I don’t know which psychiatric hospital you escaped from,” you snarl, “but do us all a favor and go back.”
To make things even worse, he starts laughing. A real, amused laugh.
"Oh, poetry!" he exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. "You do record your mood swings, right? It would be a tragedy to leave them without an audience."
He places a hand over his heart, as if genuinely moved.
"But thank goodness!" his voice brightens suddenly, making you flinch. "Someone had the honor of witnessing your stunning performance!"
He points to himself, flashing a smug grin.
"Moi."
Enough. You can’t take any more of this nonsense. Your patience is gone.
How dare he mock you like this.
You turn away from him without a word and head behind the counter. Your phone is right where you left it, tucked just under the register.
"Get out of this damn place or I’m calling the police," you snap, grabbing the phone with trembling hands.
He gasps, loud and theatrical, clutching his chest like you have stabbed him with your words.
“The police?!” he reels back, eyes wide with mock horror. “Darling, are you threatening me… or inviting me to a red carpet event?”
You glare, thumb hovering over the screen.
“Because either way,” he adds, spinning around with flair, “I should really change my outfit.”
And then he strikes a pose, as if waiting for camera flashes.
“Imagine the headlines!” he cries, pacing like he’s on a runway. “‘Local Icon Detained for Being Too Fabulous!’ Oh, the injustice!”
To you, he's nothing more than a walking freak show. He’s a complete unknown to you, not someone you’ve seen in this town, online, or in any magazine.
You’re just about to dial the number when he glances at you from over his shoulder, and for the first time, his voice softens. Just a little.
“Come now. Do you really want to ruin your night?”
There’s a challenge in his smile. Like he doesn’t think you’ll go through with it.
But honestly, your night is already ruined. You’re at your limit. You stare at him, half in disbelief, half in fury. It’s clear: this man won’t leave unless he’s given a real reason to fear you.
So you press the button, and the crisp voice of the dispatcher cuts through the air.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him freeze. Not in fear, but with the stunned disbelief of someone who never thought you’d actually do it.
“Oh. My. Stars,” he breathes. “You actually called them.”
You press the phone to your chest to muffle your words.
“Get the fuck out, or I’ll proceed.”
But he doesn’t move.
He just places one hand on his hip, still holding the smartphone in the other. The audacity to keep on recording.
“Do you have any idea what kind of scandal this will cause?” he gasps. “Me? Arrested? Here? And for what?”
Your eyes narrow, and you raise the phone again. He doesn’t seem violent, you think of him like one of those people who worm their way into your life and wear you down until there's nothing left. A nuisance.
“I'm at work and a creep is harassing me,” you say coldly. “He won’t leave.”
His jaw drops. He appears truly taken aback, like he can’t decide whether to be outraged or impressed.
You don’t add more just yet. You want to see if he’ll finally take the hint.
He whirls around, arms flailing in theatrical distress.
“I can't be arrested like this! The lighting is awful, the acoustics are dead, and my hair-!” he stops mid-rant and faces you, expression caught somewhere between frustration and admiration.
“You’re either the boldest human I’ve ever met,” he says, lowering his phone, finally switching it off, “or you’re completely out of your mind. Calling the cops over me? A Star?!”
Your words die in your throat when he suddenly goes still. But a heartbeat later... that damn smirk.
With a shrug that is far too casual, he begins backing toward the door.
“I mean no harm, darling!” he says, as if you’re the one overreacting. “But honestly, shouldn’t you be delighted to see someone like me? This place could use some color.”
The man throws his hands up in a theatrical gesture of surrender, with a dazzling, unapologetic smile.
“Okay then. Another time, perhaps. When your heart isn’t clenched in such a... dreary little fist.” he says, turning as the door creaks open behind him.
You don’t answer. You just watch him with narrowed eyes, jaw tight, phone still pressed to your ear. The dispatcher is asking something, but you’re not listening.
When the door shuts with a hollow clink, you slowly lower the phone and hang up, the soft beep echoing far too loud in the silence. You are alone again. Only a headache pounding at your temples to keep you company.
You glance around the place, the streak of grease still glistening on the glass door, the crumbs scattered under and across the untouched tables. Your body feels heavy, as if exhaustion is dragging you down.
You let out a weak, dry laugh. It slips out without your permission.
“What in the world just happened?” you whisper, voice cracking just enough to remind you you're still there.
You reach the door, slowly. You can’t even tell if any of it was real, or just your imagination playing tricks on you.
You bend down to pick up the rag, but your fingers tremble.
You stare at the oily fabric in your hand, and for a moment, it looks like your life. Messy. Dirty. Dropped. Maybe this is what rock bottom looks like. It feels like you're sinking into an endless void.
You close your eyes.
Your life is a comedy, yet you're the only one who's not laughing.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
