The worst part is that I’m supposed to start the new schedule immediately. So I’ll just have to work a twelve hour shift tonight to make it work.
The pit in my stomach grows sharp and familiar. Not just from frustration, but from hunger.
I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And if I stay here any longer without grabbing something, I’ll talk myself out of leaving. Again.
I grab my coat, slip on boots that’ve seen better days, and head out into the night before another call comes in that I’ll have to take instead of the lunch break that I now desperately need, even if it is the middle of the night.
The streets are quieter now. Not silent—never silent—but the worst of the city has already passed out or passed on to something else for their entertainment. I tug my sleeves over my fingers and make the walk to the all-night diner five blocks down. Cheap food. Greasy. Comforting.
Familiar.
There’s a guy outside the building, bundled in layers of worn clothing, a trash bag full of cans tucked under his arm like treasure. He doesn’t ask me for anything. Just nods once, eyes down, trying not to look like he exists.
I hesitate at the door.
Inside, I order two grilled cheese sandwiches and a large coffee to go. I don’t need both. I can’t afford both. But I do it anyway.
He’s still there when I step out.
“Hey,” I say, offering him the second sandwich. “It’s not much, but it’s warm.”
He blinks at me like I’ve slapped him. Then he takes it, nodding fast, clutching it like it might disappear.
“Thank you,” he says. “People don’t usually—thank you.”
I don’t say anything. Just nod and walk off into the night before the tears in his voice become mine.
By the time I get back to my apartment, my fingers are numb and the coffee’s gone lukewarm. I set the food on the desk, collapse into the chair, and stare at the monitor, still half-lit with leftover code and reminders.
I sit. Stare at the sandwich. It smells like grease and memory. Warmth that doesn’t reach deep enough.
I take a bite. Chew. Swallow.
And feel nothing.
It’s like my stomach’s closed for business. Like my body already decided survival doesn’t mean that I get to eat anything tonight. My appetite is just… gone.
I push the sandwich aside and wipe my hands on a napkin, even though they’re clean. Just something to do. Something to distract from the ache sitting where food should go. But none of that is unusual at this point.
The screen saver on my laptop draws my attention. Pale blue glow, a swirl of company branding that feels more like a warning than a welcome.
I log back in and check for late pings.
There’s one ticket left in my queue, but it’s one that I know I shouldn’t touch. Honestly, it should’ve been flagged for someone else. It’s in a completely different department, something we’re not even trained for.
I almost reassign it. Almost.
But something about the blatant desperation in the message catches my eye.
“I’m notsure who to contact anymore. I’ve been locked out of the photo archives for weeks. They’re telling me to file another formal ticket to get the help I need, but I’m ninety and this is the only computer my granddaughter set up before she passed away. Please. I just want to see my photos.”
The name attached is unfamiliar.A client ID I’ve never seen.
Definitely not one of the corporate clients that I work on.
This isn’t my job.
This is definitely not something I should do.
