The automatic doors hiss open at 7:00 a.m., letting in a breeze that smells faintly of rain and lavender hand sanitizer. Camila steps inside, her white dress crisp and clean, the bow in her hair tied with quiet precision. Her name tag—Camila, Wellness Associate—rests just above her heart, where she keeps everything she doesn't say.
She walks past the vitamin aisle, nods politely to the stock manager, and clocks in without a word. Her station is the natural supplements counter, where she arranges bottles of elderberry syrup and magnesium capsules like sacred objects. She loves this part—order, purpose, peace.
But peace is a fragile thing.
Behind her, whispers stir like dust in sunlight.
"She thinks she's better than us," murmurs Lacey, adjusting her lip gloss in the reflection of a freezer door.
"She's always alone. Probably doesn't have friends," adds Mariah, stacking protein bars with more force than necessary.
Camila hears them. She always does. But she doesn't flinch. She's learned that silence is a kind of armor. Her focus is her sanctuary.
Internal Monologue:
I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to help people heal. That's enough. That has to be enough.
She greets a customer with a warm smile, explaining the difference between two herbal teas. Her voice is gentle, her hands steady. The customer leaves feeling seen. Camila returns to her shelf, her bow still perfectly tied.
The break room clock blinked 10:30 a.m. in soft red digits, and Camila's shoulders relaxed for the first time that morning. Her shift had started with a rush of customers asking about probiotics and immune boosters, and she'd handled each one with her usual grace—gentle voice, steady hands, and a smile that never quite reached her eyes.
She walked to the company fridge, opened the door, and retrieved her light yellow teddy bear lunch box. The plush bear face stitched into the lid smiled up at her, a quiet reminder of softness in a world that often felt too loud. She carried it to the farthest corner of the break room, where a round table sat beneath a flickering light. It was her usual spot—away from the chatter, the glances, the noise.
Camila opened her lunch box with care, arranging her meal like a ritual. A salad of spring mix and Italian greens, topped with chopped almonds, fresh strawberries, and blackberries. A small pouch of raspberry vinaigrette waited patiently beside it. She placed a neatly folded napkin on either side of her salad bowl, then she pulled out a small bag of baked hot Cheetos and a peanut butter protein shake with chocolate chips settled at the bottom like treasure. Everything was intentional. Everything was hers.
From her backpack, she retrieved her white Android tablet, propped it upright, and tapped into Netflix. A cooking show flickered to life—soft jazz, sizzling pans, a chef explaining the art of caramelizing onions. Camila slipped a single Galaxy earbud into her left ear and let the world fade.
For a few minutes, there was peace.
Then the door burst open.
Laughter spilled in like floodwater. The rest of the staff entered in a wave of fast food bags and perfume clouds. Burger King wrappers crinkled, White Castle sliders steamed, and someone had brought a tray of home-cooked oxtails that filled the room with rich, savory warmth. Camila didn't look up. She dipped her fork into her salad, drizzled the vinaigrette, and kept her eyes on the screen.
But peace never lasted long.
Lacey and Mariah approached her table, their steps slow and deliberate. Lacey wore a pink hoodie with rhinestones spelling out "Boss Babe," and Mariah had her hair slicked into a high ponytail that bounced with every step. They stopped just short of Camila's tablet, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Why you always eat over here by yourself?" Lacey asked, voice loud enough to draw glances.
Mariah leaned in. "You don't talk to nobody. You just sit here all quiet like you better than us."
Camila blinked once, then calmly reached forward and paused her show. The chef froze mid-stir. She removed her earbud, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up.
"I enjoy my solitude," she said, voice even. "I enjoy my peace."
Lacey scoffed. "Peace? Girl, we just tryna have fun. You act like you too good to laugh."
Camila didn't flinch. "If I'm interested in the topic anyone is discussing here, I'll gladly jump in. It shouldn't be an issue if I do or don't talk. I'm here to work."
Her gaze didn't waver. It wasn't angry. It wasn't defensive. It was clear. Clean. Like glass that had been polished until it reflected truth.
Mariah shifted her weight, lips pursed. "Whatever," she muttered, turning away.
Lacey rolled her eyes. "You weird," she said, and the two walked off, their laughter forced now, brittle at the edges.
Camila watched them go, then turned her tablet back on. The chef resumed stirring, the onions golden and glistening. She took a bite of her salad, the berries sweet against the tang of vinaigrette. Her earbud slid back into place. The break room buzzed around her, but she was untouched.
She didn't need to be understood. She needed to be whole.
The afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the pharmacy floor. Camila stood behind the drive-through counter, her white dress still pristine, her bow still tied. The hum of the prescription printer filled the air, and she moved with practiced ease—scanning labels, checking dosages, confirming insurance codes. Her fingers were swift, her mind focused.
Outside, cars lined up at the drive-through window. Camila pressed the intercom button.
"Hi there, welcome to WholeSpring Pharmacy. How can I help you today?"
Static crackled, then a voice snapped through.
"Yeah, I'm here for my refill. And it better be right this time."
Camila blinked, her posture straightening. She recognized the voice—Mr. Darnell, a regular with a short temper and a long list of medications. Last week, his blood pressure pills had been delayed due to a system error. He hadn't taken it well.
"I'm sorry about last time," Camila said calmly. "Let me pull up your profile and make sure everything's correct today."
She tapped through the system, confirming the prescription. It was ready. She placed the bottle in a paper bag, added the receipt, and slid it into the drawer that extended to the car window.
Mr. Darnell's face appeared through the glass—creased, red, eyes narrowed.
"You people don't know how to do your damn jobs," he muttered, snatching the bag. "I had to go three days without my meds. You think that's okay?"
Camila didn't flinch. "I understand how frustrating that must've been. I've double-checked everything today. You're all set."
He looked at her, waiting for her to break. She didn't.
"Whatever," he muttered, and drove off.
Camila exhaled slowly, her fingers resting on the counter. She didn't take it personally. She couldn't. Not in this job. Not in this life.
The next car rolled up—a silver SUV with faded bumper stickers and two huskies panting in the back seat. In the driver's seat sat an older Black woman, her skin rich and warm, her eyes soft but tired. She wore a floral headscarf and a loose cardigan, and her smile was gentle despite the oxygen tube resting beneath her nose.
Camila pressed the intercom.
"Hi there, welcome to WholeSpring Pharmacy. How can I help you today?"
The woman leaned forward. "Baby, I'm here for my heart meds and the kidney pills. My doctor called 'em in yesterday."
Camila nodded. "Let me check for you, Ms…?"
"Ms. Loretta," the woman said. "And I heard that man yelling at you. You handled that real graceful."
Camila paused, her heart catching. "Thank you, Ms. Loretta. I try my best."
"You did more than try," Loretta said. "You stayed kind. That's rare."
Camila smiled, her fingers moving through the system. "Your prescriptions are ready. I'll send them out now."
She placed the bottles in a bag, added a small note with dosage reminders, and slid it through the drawer.
Loretta took the bag, then looked at Camila through the glass.
"You remind me of my granddaughter," she said. "She's quiet like you. But strong. Strong in the way that don't need to shout."
Camila's throat tightened. "That means a lot."
Loretta nodded toward the huskies. "These two keep me going. Even when my body don't want to."
Camila leaned closer. "They're beautiful. What are their names?"
"Storm and Honey," Loretta said proudly. "Storm's the wild one. Honey's the cuddle bug."
The dogs barked softly, tails wagging.
"You know," Loretta continued, "I been through a lot. Lost my husband, lost my health. But I ain't lost my joy. And seeing you today? That's joy."
Camila blinked back sudden warmth in her eyes. "You're joy too, Ms. Loretta."
Loretta smiled, eyes crinkling. "Keep being brave, baby. The world needs more women like you."
Camila watched as the SUV pulled away, the huskies still wagging, the woman still smiling.
She stood at the window for a moment longer, the sun catching the edge of her bow. The day wasn't over. The work wasn't done. But something in her had shifted—just a little.
Kindness had found her. And it had stayed.