If someone had told me two months ago that I'd be waking up on a thin mattress in a tiny two-bedroom apartment, listening to Mrs. Sharon's noisy old kettle whistle like it was dying I would've laughed so hard at that person.
Or maybe slapped them.
Smiles, But here I was.
And life wasn't asking for my permission.
I stretched on the small bed, wincing at the ache in my back. Mrs. Sharon's apartment was warm, cozy, and filled with the scent of cinnamon and laundry detergent. Her two kids Louis and Mara were sweet, and so accommodating always trying to make me laugh, always offering me their snacks as if that alone could fix my reality.
But even wrapped in kindness, grief still felt like a brick on my chest.
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft clatter of breakfast dishes in the kitchen. A part of me wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. Another part just wanted maybe the piece my father raised to get me out of bed.
Survive, Clara.
Survive or get swallowed whole. That became my motto to bring my mojo back.
I pulled on the café uniform Mrs. Sharon had ironed for me the night before a faded brown polo, a stiff apron, and black jeans that were too tight around the thighs because apparently trauma didn't stop your body from being annoying.
My shift at Brews & Bites started at 7 a.m. sharp.
It was my first job. Sigh, My first real job.
And it sucked. Not the sexy kind of suck
********
The morning air in Queens was chilly but alive. Cars honked, kids shouted at their moms, a dog barked like it was arguing with God. The city moved. The city breathed. And I… well, I tried to blend in.
Brews & Bites was a tiny hole-in-the-wall café with an attitude and a smell of burned espresso. The door creaked when you pushed it, and the bell above it jingled like it was begging for help. People loved the place though because it offered cheap coffee, fast service, and just messy enough to feel authentic.
My manager, Ellie, a woman in her late twenties with a sleeve of tattoos and zero patience, gave me a look the moment I stepped in.
"You're late." Missy.
I blinked. "Ellie, it's 6:52—"
"Exactly. You have eight minutes to fix your hair, tie that apron properly, and try not to look like life punched you in the throat."
I sighed and tied my apron tighter.
"Life did punch me in the throat, Ellie."
She paused, glanced at me, and her face softened only slightly. "Yeah, well… punch it back. Now let's go."
And that was that.
No sympathy. No slow entry. Just... work.
*******
I took orders at the counter, wiped down tables, learned how to use the espresso machine without exploding it, and smiled at customers who acted like smiling was an act of violence against their existence.
Dang ,It was so exhausting.
Humiliating, And absolutely necessary.
The tips were small, the pay was worse, and the hours were long. But if I wanted to survive, if I wanted a degree and a future, I had to eat the bitterness like it was breakfast.
"Clara! Order up!" Ellie barked.
I rushed to the machine, grabbed the steaming cup, and delivered it to a man with a newspaper and permanent frown lines.
Some customers were nice. Some were tolerable.
And then… there were the demons disguised as humans lol.
Around 10 a.m., one walked in.
Tall. Expensive suit. Arrogance dripping from him like cologne. He didn't look at the menu. Or at me.
"Coffee," he said flatly.
"Sure. What kind of coffee would you like? We have Americano, cappuccino, latte.
"Black. No cream. No sugar. I said coffee, not dessert."
I forced a smile. "Coming right up sir"
I tried. I swear I tried. But I was still figuring out how to use the stupid machine. In my panic mood , my hand slipped and I hit the wrong button. Instead of a plain black coffee, the machine sputtered out a lightly foamed americano with a swirl of crème on top.
Not that big of a deal, right?
Wrong!
The man took one sip, paused, stared at me with the slow, burning rage of someone who hated their life enough to take it out on others… and then,He threw the entire cup of hot coffee at me.
It splashed across my shirt, my neck, my arms. I gasped more in shock than pain but it still burned.
"What the hell is this?" he snapped. "Do you people not understand basic instructions?! Black coffee! BLACK! How difficult is that?!"
The entire café went silent.
I froze. My throat felt packed with cotton. My skin stung. My eyes burned not from the coffee, but from humiliation.
Ellie stormed over. "Sir, that's enough—"
"No," the man snarled. "She messed up. She should learn to do her job."
People stared. Whispered. Some frowned at him. Others looked away.
But the damage was done.
I trembled, my vision blurring. Ellie touched my elbow.
"Go to the bathroom," she whispered. "I'll handle him."
I nodded and walked away, holding my burning arm, my chest tight.
The moment the restroom door closed, everything came crashing down.
I slid to the floor, knees hugged to my chest, choking on sobs I couldn't contain,Hot tears poured down my face as I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth to muffle the sound.
This wasn't supposed to be my life.
I was supposed to be at Columbia, laughing with my brother, teasing him about his terrible basketball shots. I was supposed to be texting my mom from the plane, showing her pictures of sunsets and silly plane food. I was supposed to be sitting in my father's office, pretending to understand his business meetings.
No, Not this.
Not crying on the tile floor of a café bathroom, soaked with coffee and shame.
My fingers curled around the necklace in my pocket ,my mother's necklace. The only piece of her I had left. A small silver pendant with a single sapphire, warm from my touch.
"Mom," I whispered, voice breaking. "I don't know how to do this. I really don't."
The tears came harder, like it was just waiting for me to snap.
"I miss you. I miss all of you. Please… please tell me I'll be okay."
My shoulders shook uncontrollably.
I held the necklace tighter, pressing it to my forehead.
"Liam… Dad… I'm trying. I swear I'm trying."
I cried until my throat hurt and my eyes burned raw.
Until there was nothing left in me but a hollow ache.
A gentle knock came at the door.
"Clara?" Ellie's voice was surprisingly soft. "Take your time. I kicked him out. And the regulars are pissed for you." He should learn how to treat a lady.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
I wiped my eyes, stood slowly, and stared at myself in the mirror.
Same face.
Same eyes.
But something inside me had cracked deeper.
The old Clara Langford was dead.
Burned in the same fire that took her family.
What remained… was a girl learning to survive flames.
And life?
Life wasn't done testing her.
Not even close.