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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Even though the income is low, getting a job at the local cafe called Mornings was the greatest idea I've had in a while. Mostly because of Fry, my friend—possibly the nicest person ever.

His real name is Siggy, but as he's a cook and his last name is fry, most call him Frypan, including me.

And his other friends.

Those friends who gather around the exact same table every Wednesday and Saturday, around noon. I don't know their names, and there's too many to describe, but I know it's always the same ones who get here on time and the same ones who walk in late.

Their number is not always the same, nor is there a real pattern in it— seems like they all try to be there as many times as possible.

It's been going on for as long as I can remember. Their orders have grown a special place in my mind. The kind of milkshakes people order say a lot more about them than you might think.

"Quinn." Fry moves past me, his sudden hand on my shoulder nearly causing a tray to slip out of my hands. "You're standing in the wayyy."

"Sorry." Startled, I look at him. His eyes still carry the usual warm look. The form of his body might seem intriguing at first—tough and big—but he's really just lovely.

"It's fine. Just needed to pass through. My friends are here. I'll be back!"

Somehow, he made our boss allow him to take his break at a different time; when his friends come over.

On Wednesday and on Saturday. It's always the same ones who show up early and the same ones who show up late. Now and then, they bring a new face, but I've seen all of them by now.

It often takes me a while to peel my eyes away from them. Takes me a while to ignore that feeling in my stomach—they all look so cheerful, all of the time. Just a cheerful friend group whose only worries are not showing up on time.

"Quinn," Walter, our boss, warns. "Take their orders and keep the baked goods warm."

Quickly, I nod, revealing a notepad and a pen from the front pocket of my apron. I click the pen open while stepping up to the group.

"Good morning," I greet, my eyes mostly on Fry because I'm too nervous to look at the others. "What can I get for you?"

As always, the black-haired boy I'm pretty sure has Asian genes speaks up first. Also as always, I have his order in mind before he can even say it.

An Oreo milkshake with a lot of whipped cream.

"An Oreo milkshake with extra whipped cream," he announces, not bothering to look up more than necessary, too busy talking with the girl next to him.

"Please," the blonde, British one adds before turning his baby-face to me. His slim arms are stretched over the bench, hair messy and smile kind. "And a vanilla one for me. Thank you."

The brunette boy across from him looks up from the menu card, which he always fidgets with. His eyes barely make it above the card as he looks at his friend. "You know they have chocolate chip cookies as well, right? They're new."

"Indeed, I do." The Brit shakes his head. I'm pretty confident his name is Nate or something like that. "My apologies, no milkshake. Just the cookies."

I nod, noting it down and crossing the vanilla milkshake off. Next, the brunette spends another five minutes looking at the menu card while everyone else orders their usual.

I give them one last glance right before entering the kitchen; they have spread a map on the table, all of them gathered around it. The Asian is pointing at certain spots while the Brit marks them with a sharp pencil.

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The streets are empty and cold compared to the warm insides of Mornings. Especially since it's way past twilight, now that my shift is over.

During the day, it's quite hot outside. Summer vacation is about to begin for students— though I haven't been at school since fifteen years old.

It surprised me back then, the fact that with parental consent, I was allowed to drop out. My mom's drunk half of the time, so it wasn't hard getting her to sign, and my dad lives far away. He doesn't really care, just wants to stay away from us as much as possible.

I left school to gain money. To keep Mom steady and well, even though that seems impossible. I can only be happy we still have an apartment.

I'll turn twenty in a few weeks. My salary will rise along with my age— a few dollars. It'll be just enough to live with.

Shivers run down my spine as I pass a grinning, homeless man. The thuds of my shoes hitting the pavement fasten, echoing through the neighborhood.

I clutch my hand around my phone. Mentally, I shake my head. He might've protected me fiercely, but that protection left scars I still carry. Not just physically... I pray and pray he appears again, but I also pray he disappears forever.

He was my escape, but I never truly left his prison and I never will.

Luckily, my apartment isn't far away from Mornings and I've soon arrived. I rush inside the giant building, up the elevator, and into the home.

I immediately find my mom passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of wine resting on her lap and a cigarette daring to dangle off her fingers. A few beers are spread around the place.

It's an... alright size. There's a couch and a fireplace that's never on. We have a tiny kitchen; a working fridge and counters. The bathroom contains a shower, a toilet, and a sink.

My mother sleeps in the only bedroom we have. Apart from the mess she makes, I don't mind spending my nights on the couch. The bed can't be much more comfortable.

After tossing away all the empty bottles, the smell of alcohol lingering in the air, I notice the envelope in front of the door. I rip it open in a hurry.

Quinn,
The line is crossed for me. This is the last time I'm helping you out. You're old enough to work for your own money, and your mother should find a clinic. Don't waste it.

My father.

Once a month, he sends me money through letters— well, not anymore, apparently.

And that's a big problem. Without it, I won't be able to afford the rent. I'd have to work so many extra hours to get food and buy proper clothes.

My eyes flash to my phone again. The urge is so strong. It's right there, aching in my chest. It takes one call, and things might be fixed immediately.

Rubbing my forehead, I work my way into the bathroom. A pair of green eyes stare back at me when I look in the mirror. My hair's up in a ponytail, long and blonde. I don't like ponytails that much, but it's required for work and I don't have the money to wash my hair that often, so slicking it back is the only solution.

I wash my hands before changing into my pajamas. Hopelessly trying to make my mother up makes no sense.

She's a tall woman, with slim legs. Her blonde hair is now greasy, clumpy, and falling out. Wrinkles spread in her face and sometimes, when she opens her eyes, all you can see was emptiness.

Our house is a mess. Dirty dishes everywhere, bottles that keep growing into more, dust that makes me sneeze over and over.

I have no time to clean it. Work, work, work, that's my schedule. A few hours of sleep, buy some groceries, and work again. Most of the time, I only give my mother food and eat some leftovers at Mornings.

I'd be able to afford my own meals would my mother stop buying alcohol with our money.

I can't complain.

I've learned to swallow those moments. My mom drinks away our money, lets our apartment rot around us, and stumbles through her days like a ghost of who she used to be. I don't stop her. I can't.

I've always known it's better to keep quiet. To let people do what they need to do without stepping in the way. Arguing, fighting back—it never ends well. People like things a certain way, and if you try to change that, you're the one who gets hurt.

It was the same with him. He protected me, took care of me. Sure, he got angry sometimes, but doesn't everyone? Sometimes I made mistakes, said the wrong thing, or didn't listen well enough. That's just how it is. You learn to fix yourself, and you move on.

Mom's no different. She's just doing what she needs to cope, like he did. I've seen it enough to understand. Some people have their ways, and if you love them, you don't try to change that. You just do your part, clean up what you can, and don't get in the way.

That's how to keep people close. Don't create a fuss or expect a lot. Just be there for them at all times and don't complain.