When Lena Hayes stepped foot onto campus, she thought she'd left her past behind. New city, new start, right? But life has a funny way of bringing old ghosts back. Especially when one of them happens to be her high school ex... the one person who st...
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"Let me know when you're free so I can draft your schedule that way," she said, her warm smile making me feel a surge of excitement.
"Of course!" I replied, trying to contain the bubbling joy as I rushed out of her office, practically skipping down the hallway.
I had finally done it. After years of dreaming, of pushing myself through endless practice and never letting go of my passion, I'd finally landed the job I always wanted—teaching dance. Even as a kid, my mom would send me to classes almost every day, sometimes twice a day when I had a big performance coming up. The stage had been my second home, a place where I could move without fear or self-consciousness. I had performed at least seven or eight times a year, sometimes even more. No matter how chaotic life got, dance had always been my sanctuary, the one thing I knew I was good at.
But as I walked into the café where I currently worked, the sharp contrast between the two worlds hit me like a wave. The smell of brewing coffee and the distant hum of the espresso machine filled the air as I grabbed my apron from the hook by the counter. This job had been... fine, I guess. Not my dream, but it paid the bills. And in just a few days, I wouldn't be working here anymore. I had to remind myself of that. I was so close. I could practically see the light at the end of the tunnel, but there was still a shift to get through today.
I tied the apron around my waist and dove into the work. The hours dragged on, a blur of coffee orders, half-hearted customer small talk, and the occasional disaster in the form of spilled drinks. The café was always hectic, but today felt especially chaotic. By the time the lunch rush had died down, I was already exhausted, the kind of deep, bone-aching exhaustion that made every movement feel like wading through molasses. My feet throbbed, my back screamed in protest, and the apron—once a clean slate—was now splattered with stains from spilled cappuccinos, soy lattes, and the unforgiving espresso shots that seemed determined to land on me instead of in the cup.
Then, just as I was wiping down a table for what felt like the millionth time, Mrs. Garcia, one of the regulars, approached me with her usual soft smile. She was the kind of customer who ordered the same thing every day but always had a kind word or a little joke ready for the staff.
"Lena, isn't this your last week here, dear?" she asked, her voice sweet but tinged with sadness.
I blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. "Huh? Oh! Yes, it is," I replied, trying to summon some enthusiasm but finding myself too drained to do more than nod.
Mrs. Garcia gave me a knowing look, as if she understood the mixed emotions swirling inside me. "Well, we'll miss you around here. You've got something special, you know? But it's time you moved on to bigger and better things."
I smiled weakly, her words hitting a little harder than I expected. Bigger and better things. I was finally going after what I loved, but I couldn't deny that leaving this place—this safe, predictable routine—felt strange. The café had been my safety net for so long. It wasn't glamorous, and it sure wasn't my passion, but it had been consistent.
