Unwritten

Chapter 4

A few hours had passed. Anthony stepped into the small clinic bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead. He tugged at the collar of his scrubs, shrugging out of the white lab coat that had hung loosely around his shoulders all day. Folding it, he placed it on the countertop. The cool air hit his skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth he'd felt under the heavy layers.

With practiced movements, he changed into another uniform—an elegant, white collar shirt with a black vest and a sleek black tie. The crisp fabric hugged his frame, differently to the functional scrubs he had worn for his shift at the clinic. As he adjusted his vest and smoothed down the tie, a sense of tiredness settled over him.

By night, Anthony worked at Bela Vista, a Michelin-starred gem in the heart of the city, known for its elevated Brazilian cuisine. It was the kind of place where the scent of freshly grilled picanha and exotic spices filled the air, where fine wine flowed alongside every plate of feijoada and moqueca. For someone like Anthony, who grew up immersed in the rich flavors and traditions of Brazil, it felt like a piece of home transplanted into his otherwise hectic life.

He owed the job to his Brazilian connections—his friend Paulo who had managed to secure him a spot as a waiter without any dreaded interview. No interviews meant no public speaking, and for Anthony, that was the real gift. His fear of standing in front of strangers, trying to sell himself, had kept him from many opportunities. But here, he could simply work, no questions asked.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he noticed the dark circles under his eyes betraying his exhaustion. His thoughts drifted back to the woman with the ginger cat. He didn't understand why she lingered in his mind, and part of him didn't want to know. Shaking off the distraction, he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on his face, the sharp chill jolting him awake. For a brief moment, he paused, letting the water drip from his chin as he checked the time on his watch—7:30 PM. His shift at the restaurant started in half an hour.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, quickly drying his face with a paper towel.

He grabbed his duffle bag, hastily stuffing his scrubs inside before rushing out of the bathroom, his footsteps echoing against the clinic's tiled floor. As he approached the secretary's desk, he realized he was still clutching his name tag for the clinic.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the desk. "See ya, Barry," he called out, his voice hurried.

The secretary, Barry, barely lifted his head, responding with a tired, indifferent hum. Anthony bolted out the door, his mind already on the clock ticking down to 8 o'clock.

Anthony darted across the street, the glow of the building lights shined the pavement, casting fleeting shadows beneath his feet. The sharp glare of the traffic lights momentarily blinded him, forcing him to squint as he weaved through the bustling avenue. The wind whipped against his face, tousling his hair as his duffle bag bounced relentlessly against his hip with every hurried stride.

Up ahead, he saw the bus pulling into the stop—the one he needed to catch. Panic surged, and he pushed himself faster, legs burning as he sprinted toward the closing doors. Just in time, he slipped through, the driver barely noticing as he stepped aboard. He pressed his card against the reader with shaky hands, the faint beep signaling his entry. His chest heaved as he made his way to the back, collapsing into a seat. His breath came in ragged gasps, heart pounding in his ears as the adrenaline slowly ebbed.

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At the same time as Anthony was in a rush, so was Clover, who had woken up from her nap by a hangry Nancy.