Lover

one.

If there was a room with an infinite number of people standing inside, I'd spend a lifetime searching for you.

It was embarrassing and exhausting really— spending her hours wasting away behind a counter at the 'Go-Mart' a bodega on the west side the city. Stella worked the night shift at the store on odd days of the week, which meant she was doomed to stand behind the counter on Mondays, Wednesdays, and worst of all— Fridays.

Given that her social life had already been slaughtered by this, Stella started all her shifts exhausted from coming off her real job— a tv news journalist. The funny misconception about tv news people is that people always assume they're wealthy just because they're on tv.

The opposite couldn't be more true. Stella made from that job about as much as a restaurant manager, even with a Bachelor's degree. 'Go-Mart' was the only way she could still focus on her career and pay rent at the same time, as unpleasant as it was.

Luckily, she had a couple weeks left in her contract, so her time at WNYT would soon be coming to a close. Unfortunately, that meant she would have to find another station, pack things up, and move on from New York.

Stella pushed the till closed, taking a couple bucks out to count the spare change she couldn't fit in. Over the next hour, a couple people filtered in and out, some buying cigarettes, others stocking up on Gatorade to get through hangovers.

The night dragged on, Stella stocked a few shelves, eventually choosing to switch on the TV to her news station so she could rewatch her story. It was rather boring, today she covered a real estate event in the city that was meant to target the homeless crisis.

She cringed a little when her story came on, hearing her voice. Her gaze was interrupted.

"I'll take a pack of Marlboro reds," an older man approached her. He looked tired and carried an earthy smell— likely fresh off a construction shift.

Stella nodded, "of course." Reaching into the glass case behind her and grabbing the cigarettes. Another few people entered the store.

"Hey," said the old man. "Hey you're her on tv!" The man gestured towards Stella's story, which was about to end.

"Oh um..." she was unsure of how to respond at the sudden attention.

"You're Stella Jean!" He proclaimed, a few heads turned but the others in the store seemed unbothered. "You better tell that producer of yours to run the Mets game this Tuesday, I wanna watch." 

She smiled and laughed at the man to make herself seem more open. "Okay I will," she assured knowing she and her producer had no control over what sports game the network chose to air.

The man left, leaving three people sifting through the aisles of the store. Stella continued cleaning up behind the counter. After a few minutes of silence, it was disturbed with a loud crashing sound. She looked up to see the chip display scattered on the ground. Even more horrifying, a man with a knife was coming towards her.

Several screams bounced off people in the store, one woman diving for the door once she realized what was happening. Stella always thought, that given the flight or fight scenario— she'd definitely choose fight. But in reality, she chose neither. Her body was immovable, she just froze.

"Open the register," the hooded man commanded, brandishing his knife over the counter. She was unfortunate in that her store didn't have any red burglary or emergency button under the counter. Her boss had assured her the area was safe, and insisted he not spend extra money on the install.

Fuck you.

"Remove the money, place it in a bag." The man instructed. Stella quickly pulled several twenties and two hundreds out of the machine and stuffed them into the bag used to transport the days earnings back to the safe.

The man ripped it out of her hands, but nicked her arm as he did so. She pulled back in reaction, reaching for her wrist, silently suffering. Blood immediately began to seep from the wound. "If you call the police, I'll come back her and hurt you worse."

Stella watched the man make a break for it out of the store and into the darkness. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm her breathing.

"I'm calling the police," one of the customers insisted.

"No!" Stella cried reaching out in a panic as if she could grab the phone from behind a counter. "No, sorry um... I can do it."

With that, she pulled herself into the back office, and picked up the landline, punching a number into the buttons.

But she didn't call the police.