High school, I thought. A giant, poorly directed play where everyone is both actor and audience, all convinced they matter more than they do.
The streets were a patchwork of fading sunlight and emerging streetlights. The faint smell of dinner cooking mingled with car exhaust and the damp scent of concrete still holding the day's warmth. My bicycle groaned under my weight. Rust on the chain. Squeaky brakes. A bent reflector that wobbled like it had a mind of its own. Perfect. I pedaled toward the café, each squeak and wobble singing in rhythm with my thoughts.
Café Aurora came into view, its red doors glowing softly in the dim light. I parked my bicycle, braced myself against the familiar anxiety of new people, and stepped inside. Warmth hit me immediately. The smell of coffee beans, sugar, and soft pastries assaulted my senses like a welcome I didn't exactly feel ready to accept.
The boss, mid-twenties, sharp-eyed, and startlingly self-assured, greeted me with a casual smile.
"Haruto, welcome. Don't force anything. If words won't come, let them. Survive your shift, learn something, and don't make it worse than it already is."
Her words were a combination of warning and permission, a brutal honesty I wasn't used to but secretly appreciated. She handed me the apron and hat, gave me a nod, and moved on. Other staff acknowledged me briefly, but there was no time for idle chatter. Orders started arriving almost immediately. I grabbed my notebook and pen, ready to play the part of the competent new guy.
Remember your promise, I reminded myself. Give effort. That's all you owe. Effort is survival. Survival is everything.
The orders began steady, manageable. Coffee here, cake there, tables to clear, chairs to arrange. Other staff moved like a well-oiled machine, each gesture smooth, practiced, efficient. I stumbled a little, miscounted a fork or two, but corrected myself quickly. First day nerves.
Then a waitress walked past. She caught my eye for a fraction longer than she should have. I looked away immediately, heart thumping with mild embarrassment, and scolded myself internally.
Focus, idiot. You're here to survive, not to flirt. Or observe. Or… whatever that was.
By 7 PM, most of the staff had left. The night had quieted, leaving only a few lingering customers scattered across the tables. Boss teased as she left, that familiar twinkle in her eyes:
"Careful not to doze off, Haruto. That apron isn't a pillow, though it might feel like one."
Orders kept coming. Coffee, tea, small pastries. Each tray balanced like an act of careful chemistry. My pen scratched notes; my hands carried plates; my brain ran commentary like a running scoreboard.
Coffee there, fork here, don't spill, smile not too fake, breathe, survive. Maybe spilling counts as charm if I make it through. Almost.
The night dragged on. Midnight passed, then 1 AM, then 2. Customers became fewer but more demanding. I adjusted, adapted, sometimes guessing their needs before they asked. Sweat dotted my brow, muscles ached, but I kept pace. Effort had become rhythm, survival had become calculation.
By 3 AM, café closed. Exhaustion weighed on me physically and mentally. Pedaling home, I considered a five-minute nap on the sidewalk—but practicality and pride nudged me homeward. The apartment welcomed me like a silent friend. I flipped on the lights, muscles groaning in protest, showered slowly, letting the water dissolve tension from my body.
Clothes hung neatly. Books stacked, reminders of duties I hadn't fulfilled. Phone checked: 4 AM. Coffee jar empty. Tomorrow would be long. I sighed, flopped into bed, and let the darkness pull me under.
Morning arrived too soon. Sunlight stabbed my eyes. Phone read 6:23. Panic. Teeth brushed, face washed, deodorant sprayed, clothes pulled on, shoes slapped, bag grabbed. Streets were empty. No taxis. The bicycle became my only salvation. Pedaling fast, careful not to topple.
Classroom. Fluorescent lights. Teacher droned on, words blending into a blur. My dark circles pronounced my existence. Mind running commentary, calculating odds:
Less sleep sharpens focus, improves reaction times… or at least that's what I tell myself while hallucinating equations in my textbook.
Finally, bell rang. Relief, sweet and immediate. Head rested on desk, but it was fleeting.
"Haruto-kun."
You've got to be kidding me.
I lifted my head. There she stood. Aoi. Persistent, curious, unwavering.
"Are you okay?"
Okay? After the today? After the morning? After the universe's little joke of sleep deprivation? My mind went storming, calculating, spinning possibilities, and wondering what kind of cosmic prank placed her here now.
I blinked. Lifted my head. Met her gaze. And in that brief moment, I felt it deep down in my aching being....that thus human before me,was going to complicate my delicately orderly life...