I wake up before the alarm. I've always been used to that.
The ceiling is beige, cracked in the corner. Water damage, maybe. I trace the outline with my eyes—like a map. I make up cities in the stains. I pretend they are places I've never been.
The government gave me this place. It smells like other people's regrets. The mattress dips in the middle, like it's trying to hold me. I don't let it. I've been alone for most of my life.
I sit up. I count:
One.
Two.
Three.
Then I breathe.
The floor is cold. That's good. Cold keeps me sharp.
When I got the apartment, it had white walls. One day, I walked in and every wall—except the bathroom—was painted black.
The toothbrush is too soft, so I press harder. Mint burns better that way. I don't look up. The mirror above the sink is there. I know it is, but I don't check. I never will.
You can lie to yourself out loud, but mirrors don't believe in fiction.
The work shirt is folded on the plastic chair beside the fridge. I washed it twice last night. The name tag says "Alex," even though I didn't tell them that was my name. I think someone just guessed. Or maybe I did. I forget how that started.
I button from the top down. Always top down. Bottom up means bad luck. Or maybe that's socks. I don't remember where I heard that. Maybe no one told me.
Breath check. Then deodorant, then socks. Left first, then right. I don't wear shoes inside. Not since… not anymore. I eat cereal dry, from the box. I don't like milk. It makes my stomach twist, as if it's trying to tell me something; some mornings, I try to listen. Today, I don't—I count the spoons in the drawer. Still sixteen. Still safe.
At the door, I stop. My fingers hover over the deadbolt.
Check one: Locked.
Check two: Still locked.
Check three: Definitely locked.
I juggle it just to be sure.
Then open it.
Then close it again.
Check four: Because sometimes three isn't enough.
The hallway smells like bleach and loneliness. I like it better than the smell inside. I don't say good morning to the lady with the dog. She never says it back. Her dog growls at me anyway.
Outside, the sun stares too hard. I blink at it, like I owe it something.
I walk toward the bus stop with my head down. Always down. If you look up, people might see you, and if they see you, they might remember you, and if they do, they might come back.
The place smells like grease and sugar.
Not just the kitchen. The walls, the tiles, the uniforms—it's baked into everything. An annoying rot. Like someone spilled soda five years ago and never wiped it up, so now it lives here. A ghost made of corn syrup. The sign outside flickers, even though it's not dark yet. One of the letters is always burned out. Sometimes R, sometimes the B. Today it's the S. That feels right.
I pushed the door open. The bell above it rattles like it's coughing. Someone behind the counter calls, "Look who's early again."
I nod but don't smile. I've learned people don't like it when you don't smile, but they like it even less when the smile doesn't look right.
I walk around the back and pull the curtain aside. The break room is barely bigger than a coffin, just some lockers that don't open, a wooden bench, and a wall of faded time cards. The plastic clock above them is stuck at 10:37. I don't know if it's AM or PM. I don't want to ask.
I grab the pen tied to the counter. The paper feels too smooth.
I write A.
Then L.
Then—
I stop.
My hand hovers.
Do I write "Alejandro"? Do I write "Alex"?
I feel someone behind me before they say it. "You forget your name, new guy?"
Their voice is casual, but not kind. A fry-cook laughs. Sharp.
I finish the name: Alex. Clean, short, safe.
I turn halfway and smile. Not too wide. Not too flat.
They grin and keep walking. Just background noise.
I slide the card into its slot and walk around. A different coworker brushes past me. I don't look at their face, but I memorize their shoes. Worn soles, mismatched laces. Red grease stain on the heel.
People lie with their eyes, but shoes never bother pretending.
I move to the kitchen line. A headset waits for me on the hook. I pretend not to notice it. A screen blinks orders in yellow text: bacon double, no tomato. Three medium fries. One kid's meal.
I start moving. One patty then another. Gloves off. Salt, press, flip.
The rhythm is the only thing that makes sense. A coworker starts humming something off-key, someone laughs at a meme on their phone, and grease hisses behind me like it's whispering.
I don't speak unless I have to.
And even when I do, I keep it under ten words.
They call me quiet. Or weird. Or background.
That's—perfect.
Background doesn't get followed. Background is always forgotten.
Three patties down, six seconds each.
That's how long you leave them before the first flip. If you flip too early, the crust doesn't form. If you flip too late, it dries out. Timing is everything. Balance, heat, control. The machine never lies. They beep when they're ready, they never forget, they don't say one thing one day and a different thing the next. They don't change their names.
I trust the fryer more than I trust most people.
There's a rhythm to the stations:
Spatula. Bun. Flip. Salt. Slide.
Wrap. Sticker. Bell.
It's not hard once you learn to disappear.
The quiet between orders is perfect. Not silence—just quiet. The kind of quiet that hums. Grease popping, timers clicking, the low static of ventilation. I could live in that. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to be the only person in here. No chatter, no music, just tasks. Just the repetition. I think I'd still cook. I think I'd still come every day and pretend someone was ordering something. Just to keep the machines company. Just to stay busy.
The first job my father gave me involved fire. That poor girl.
I was twelve, maybe eleven. He didn't tell me what I was burning. Just that I shouldn't breathe in too deeply. And not to look close, he said:
"You want to be a man, don't you?"
I flipped the burger too early. The sound is off. I press it down anyway.
I catch myself gripping the spatula too hard. My knuckles pale. I let go. Shake it off.
No one notices.
That's the goal.
Someone shouts for an extra order of fries. I nod. Drop the basket. Count six seconds, then shake. Salt, move on.
I try not to think when I'm here. That leads to remembering and remembering leads to the door at the back of the brain that shouldn't open. The one with the black handle and the little red mark on it. The one that smells like gunpowder and gasoline.
The one they tell me not to touch.
A pop of grease hits my arm. I barely flinch.
Another coworker jokes, "You're a machine, man."
I nod again.
Machines don't bleed unless they're broken.
There's a note taped to the fridge in the back. It says:
"SMILE = 5 STAR SERVICE!"
The face drawn beside it has its eyes colored in black.
I look at it for too long and feel something stir behind my ribs.
I go back to the line.
Flip. Stack. Wrap. Slide.
Forget.
Forget.
Forget.
The lull hits at 3:10.
The lunch rush dies. The oil hums quieter. The screen stops blinking. The headset crackles once, then nothing.
It's the kind of silence you don't trust.
I'm wiping the counter where the sandwich station meets the fryer, even though I already wiped it twice. I like the motion. Back and forth, predictable.
The bell on the door rings.
I don't look up.
It's probably a regular. The one with the heavy breathing and the extra pickles. Or the woman with the coupon folder who always forgets her wallet. Or—
Something shifts.
The air in the room rearranges. Like the light bent a little wrong.
I look up.
She's already at the counter.
A black cat-ear headband.
Dark lipstick.
Round glasses, too big for her face.
Ink on her arms—some clean lines, some chaos.
She moves like she's done this before. Not just the walking. Being seen. Being looked at.
She doesn't glance around. She doesn't check the menu. She just says:
"Coffee. Black."
The guy at the register is halfway through asking if she wants cream when she cuts him off with a look.
I don't hear what she says next. Not really.
Her voice is sharp—not loud—but it sticks.
I realize I'm staring.
She turns. Sees me.
Stops.
Then walks over.
Not fast. But faster than normal.
She stops in front of me. I'm still holding the rag.
"You're new," she says.
Her tone isn't curious. It's… factual.
"…Yes," I say.
One word. Safe.
She stares at me like she's waiting for more. I don't give her any.
After a few seconds, she smirks. Not a smile—something more precise. Like she's tasting something and finding it almost familiar.
Then she walks away. Back to the counter, picks up the coffee. Leaves a tip. Exits.
The bell rings again. The air goes back, rearranging itself again.
I stood there too long.
The rag is still in my hand.
My chest feels tight, like I forgot to breathe for most of that. I go back to wiping the same spot I already cleaned.
Back.
And forth.
Back.
And forth.
I can't understand it.
She didn't do anything.
She didn't ask anything real. Didn't smile. Didn't care.
And still, it felt like she looked through me. Like she opened a file I forgot existed and read it silently, then filed it away without any comment.
Like she saw something.
And decided not to say it.
Later, when I leave, I try not to think about it. But I remember her shoes. Black. Clean. Laced tight. And for some reason, I remember her hands. Not her face, just her hands.
The shift ends like it always does: late, hot, and humming in my bones.
I clock out. The pen stutters when I sign, like it's tired too.
No one says goodbye, and I don't expect them to.
Outside, the air is colder than it should be. A thin fog curls around the parking lot like it's hiding something small. I start walking. I replay the moment. Not on purpose—it just… happens.
She walked in. Cat ears. Ink. Red lipstick. Her glasses caught the light like a camera flash.
She saw me.
She walked straight up—no hesitation.
"New guy," she said.
I smiled.
I remember smiling.
She asked if I was working tomorrow. I said yes. She asked my name. I told her Alejandro. She said that was a nice name. She asked if I was from here. I told her no. I said I didn't want to talk about it. She nodded like she understood, then she said:
"You've got sad eyes."
I laughed. Not out loud, but inside.
Nobody sees that.
Then she left. Just like that… rude.
That's how it happened… I think?
I get home. Lock the door.
Check one: Locked.
Check two: Still locked.
Check three: Definitely locked.
Jiggle. Just in case.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. I put on the kettle, but don't drink anything. I just like the noise.
I sit on the floor beside the bed and pull out my sketchpad. Not the big one. The secret one.
It's for faces.
I start with the glasses, big, round, a little tilted.
Then her jawline. Sharp but soft in the corners. Her lips, dark and unsmiling. The kind that says more when they're closed. Her hair falls wild, past her shoulders. Wavy. Tangled in all the right ways. Then the eyes.
Right eye: clear, centered.
Left eye: shaded in. Dark. Layered. Crosshatched until it's just a black circle.
I blink at it… But it looks right, maybe the light hit her that way, maybe my memory is just a little fuzzy. Maybe that's how she looked at me. Through one eye. Like the other was watching something else.
I stare at the sketch for too long. My fingers smudge the paper. I check the date and write it in the corner. I don't always do that. I close the pad and slide it back under the bed. Safe.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
That's the idea.
I sit there for a while. Listening to the radiator tick.
The kettle whistles once, then gives up.
I don't move.
Later, in bed, I try to remember what she said when she left.
Was it "see you around"?
Was it "take care"?
Or something else?
It gets harder to tell which version is the right one.
Maybe she didn't say anything at all, after all, we barely talked, she just asked a question, and that was it.
I fall asleep trying to remember the shape of her voice, but all I can hear is the bell above the door. And the sound of someone walking away.