I found the job three days after leaving home. A small café near the bus terminal was looking for someone to help from morning until afternoon. When I first showed up, I didn't think much about the pay. I just wanted a reason to get out of bed every day and somewhere to hide from my own thoughts.
Every morning, I arrived before the sun was fully up. I swept the floor, wiped the tables, arranged the glasses, then brewed coffee for the first customers. The bitter smell of coffee filled the small room. Sometimes, the aroma made my chest tighten because it reminded me of mornings at home, when Maul would sit quietly by the window, reading messages on his phone.
I counted out change. Memorized customers' orders. Carried plates from the kitchen. Cleaned tables that had just been vacated. I kept myself busy until I had no time to think about anything. But apparently, the heart doesn't understand working hours.
On the fourth day, while I was lifting a tray, the phone in my apron pocket vibrated. I didn't need to look at the screen to know who was contacting me. Only Maul still texted during lunch, as if we hadn't drifted apart.
Ana, have you eaten?
I stopped beside an empty table. For several seconds, my eyes remained fixed on the message. That simple question hurt more than harsh words ever could. Maul always asked whether I'd eaten, but never asked why I was feeling increasingly lonely at home.
My phone vibrated again.
I won't force you to come home. Just let me know you're okay.
My fingers moved on their own. I started typing, “I'm okay.” The sentence looked too short. I deleted it, then typed, “Don't look for me.” After staring at it for a long time, I deleted that too. In the end, I sent no reply.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and carried the tray to the customer's table. While I worked, I tried to convince myself that staying silent was the best decision. If I replied, Maul would know I was still waiting for him. If I replied, maybe he would come. And if he came, I didn't know whether I'd be able to resist going back.
I miss home. I miss my mother. And what I most want to admit, but fear the most, is that I miss that man. But missing someone isn't reason enough to return to something that made me lose myself.
As afternoon approached, the café began to empty. Sunlight streamed through the front window, falling across the tables and the floor I'd just mopped. I was lifting a chair when a man walked in. He wore a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was slightly messy, as if he'd just gotten off a bus in a hurry.
He gave me a small smile and sat near the window.
“Black coffee. Not too sweet.”
I wrote down his order, then turned toward the cashier. When I brought him his coffee, the man stared at me as if he were about to eat me alive.
“You're new here?” he asked with utmost seriousness, raising one eyebrow. Maybe he was a regular customer.
I smiled and nodded. Being friendly to customers was one of my duties as a server. The man nodded several times in response. Yet he kept watching me. Naturally, I felt uncomfortable. I hurried back to the kitchen.
“Wait!”
I stopped in my tracks. I felt him approach me.
“I'm Friy. I live nearby, so if you ever need help, just call my number. I'll come.” He held out a piece of paper with his cell phone number on it. I furrowed my brow and stared at him in confusion.
“Don't get the wrong idea. I'm actually assigned to keep the employees here safe. The owner is my cousin,” he explained at length.
I nodded to show I understood, then thanked him. For some reason, I felt safe now.