The pharmacy lights hummed overhead, casting a soft glow on the polished floors. Camila stood behind the vitamin counter, restocking shelves with quiet precision. Her break had ended, the drive-through rush had passed, and the afternoon had settled into a rhythm of soft footsteps and barcode beeps.
She was placing a bottle of zinc supplements when she heard her name.
"Camila?"
She turned. Her manager, Mr. Whitmore, stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand. He was tall, with silver-blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses that always slid down his nose. His polo shirt bore the WholeSpring logo, and his expression was thoughtful, kind.
"Yes, sir?"
He smiled. "Got a minute?"
Camila nodded, wiping her hands on her napkin and stepping around the counter. They walked toward the back office, past the break room where laughter still lingered like perfume.
Inside, the office was modest—file cabinets, a desk, a corkboard filled with shift schedules and motivational quotes. Mr. Whitmore gestured for her to sit.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said, settling into his chair. "About your work. About you."
Camila sat, hands folded in her lap.
"I've been watching you," he continued. "Not in a weird way," he added with a chuckle, "but in the way a manager watches someone who's quietly holding the place together."
Camila blinked, unsure how to respond.
"You've got a strong work ethic," he said. "You show up early. You stay late. You don't get caught up in drama. You care about the customers. You care about the details."
She felt warmth rise in her chest. "Thank you."
Mr. Whitmore leaned forward. "Don't follow the crowd, Camila. You've got something rare. Keep learning. Keep working hard. Keep studying. Whatever brings you joy—hold on to it. Don't let anyone shake that."
Camila nodded slowly. "I try."
"I know you do," he said. "And I wanted to let you know your schedule for next week. Today's Friday, so you've got Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Really?"
"You've earned it," he said. "But there's something else."
He flipped a page on his clipboard.
"The pharmacy's growing. Fast. The family's planning to open a warehouse—big enough for 300 workers. We're talking full-scale distribution, packaging, inventory. Day shift will be twelve hours, but it's structured. Clean. Focused."
Camila tilted her head. "A warehouse?"
Mr. Whitmore nodded. "We're selecting a few of our best to help launch it. People who don't just work—they lead. People like you."
Camila's heart beat faster.
"I wanted to ask," he said, "would you be interested in working at the warehouse next week? You'd start Tuesday. Training's included. Pay bump. And you'd still be part of the WholeSpring family."
She sat in silence for a moment, the offer settling into her bones. Twelve-hour shifts. A new environment. A chance to grow. To escape the whispers. To build something.
"I'd like that," she said softly. "I accept."
Mr. Whitmore smiled, eyes crinkling. "I knew you would."
He stood, extended his hand. Camila shook it, her grip firm.
"You're going to do great things," he said. "Just keep being you."
She left the office with a new weight in her step—not heavy, but solid. Grounded.
The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Camila pulled into the driveway with her red wine Ford Escape SE 2024 of her townhouse in Clayton, Missouri. The street was quiet, lined with maple trees whose leaves had begun to blush with autumn. Her husband's car was gone—still at work, as usual. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The townhouse was abstract in design, each room a curated expression of her husband's aesthetic. He had chosen everything—the asymmetrical lighting fixtures, the geometric wall art, the minimalist furniture with sharp angles and muted tones. It was beautiful, in a distant way. Like a gallery. Like something meant to be admired, not lived in.
Camila slipped off her shoes and walked through the living room, where a glass coffee table sat atop a rug patterned with concentric circles. The walls were painted slate gray, broken only by a single canvas of swirling blue and gold. She passed the hallway mirror, catching a glimpse of herself—tired eyes, soft features, the white bow still in place.
She entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam rose quickly, fogging the mirror and softening the edges of the room. The tiles were black marble, the showerhead a sleek chrome arc. Camila undressed slowly, folding her clothes with care and placing them on the vanity.
The water was warm, almost hot, and she let it run over her shoulders, her back, her neck. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the scent of eucalyptus from the soap filling the air. For a few minutes, she let herself dissolve—into the steam, into the silence.
After drying off, she slipped into her white nightgown. It was soft cotton, sleeveless, with lace trim at the hem. She tied her hair into a loose bun and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
The kitchen was a blend of modern and whimsical. Her husband had designed it with clean lines and stainless steel appliances, but Camila had added her own touches—a ceramic frog cookie jar, a sunflower dish towel, a magnet shaped like a smiling avocado. The contrast was subtle, but it mattered.
She opened the fridge and pulled out the ingredients: russet potatoes, carrots, celery. She peeled and chopped with quiet efficiency, the knife clicking gently against the cutting board. The soup pot was green enamel, slightly chipped at the rim. She filled it with water, added the vegetables, and set it to boil.
As the soup simmered, the kitchen filled with warmth and scent—earthy potatoes, sweet carrots, the clean bite of celery. Camila stirred slowly, watching the steam rise. She added a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and waited.
When it was ready, she ladled the soup into her favorite bowl—a round ceramic frog with wide eyes and a gentle smile. The matching spoon was shaped like a lilypad, its handle curved like a vine. She placed the bowl on the wooden brown table her husband had bought from IKEA, its surface smooth and slightly glossy.
She sat down, unfolded a napkin, and began to eat. The soup was simple, nourishing. Each bite warmed her from the inside out. The frog bowl made her smile, just a little. The table was sturdy beneath her elbows. The nightgown clung softly to her skin.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, Camila ate in silence.
She didn't mind the quiet.
It was hers.