Fridays were supposed to feel like freedom. But not this one.
The halls of St. Victoria's were empty—eerily so. The usual clamor of morning chatter and locker doors slamming had been replaced by silence, thick and echoing. No students, no teachers, just me walking down the corridor with my backpack slung over one shoulder, heading to the back exit like a shadow slipping out unnoticed.
The school had given us the day off for the upcoming match. Some kind of reward, or incentive, or maybe just an excuse to rally spirit. But while everyone else made plans to sleep in, prep for the game, or throw impromptu parties, I was heading to work.
Same as always.
The bus ride was quiet. The city, still waking up, blurred past the smudged window. I stared out, counting cracked sidewalks and old posters peeling off poles, wondering if this was what my life would always look like—gray, routine, forgettable.
By the time I got to the café, the air smelled of burnt coffee and cinnamon pastries. The scent should have been comforting, but it just reminded me of how much time I spent here.
I clocked in, tied my apron, and got to work.
No one noticed me—not really. Customers came and went. I smiled when I had to, took orders, wiped tables. I was background noise. Invisible. Like always.
It wasn't until late morning that the bell above the door jingled in that lazy, half-hearted way it always did. I glanced up without thinking, ready to greet the next customer—and nearly dropped the empty tray in my hands.
Alexander Worthington.
He strolled in like he owned the place—which, considering his last name probably funded half the city, maybe he did. He was wearing a navy bomber jacket, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and that expression of bored disinterest he wore so well. A guy followed close behind him, taller and laughing, someone I didn't recognize.
Alex barely glanced around. He walked straight to the counter, ordered some fancy espresso drink without even looking at the menu, and handed the barista his black AmEx like it was nothing.
I ducked my head and moved behind one of the columns near the window, suddenly very aware of how stained my apron was.
They took a seat by the window, the sun lighting up his stupidly perfect jawline as he sipped his drink with zero urgency. His friend kept talking—loud, animated—but Alex just leaned back, relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair like the world was his personal lounge.
He didn't look at me. Not once.
And yet, I couldn't stop looking at him.
Maybe it was because he didn't belong here. This place, this job, this part of life—it wasn't meant for people like him. People like him didn't work on Fridays. They didn't ride buses with creaky brakes or live with scholarship forms hanging over their heads. They just… existed, effortlessly.
I turned away and began wiping a table that didn't need cleaning.
I didn't care.
Really, I didn't.
But somehow, I still kept glancing at him from the corner of my eye.
_ _ _
The café had finally quieted down. A few regulars lingered over pastries and open laptops, but the rush was over. I wiped down the counter slowly, rehearsing the words in my head for the fifth time.
Mr. Ramsey's office door was cracked open. I could hear papers shuffling, the soft clicking of his pen, and the faint sound of classical music playing from the tiny speaker on his desk. I took a calming breath and stepped closer, knocking gently on the frame.
"Mr. Ramsey?" I asked, voice barely above the music.
He looked up over his glasses, his expression as unreadable as always. "Ava. Everything alright?"
"Yes, sir. I just… I wanted to ask if I could have Saturday morning off." I clasped my hands together gently. "Just the morning. I'll still come in for the evening shift, I promise."
His brow furrowed. "Saturday morning is peak hours. We're short already. Who's going to manage the drinks station—you got a twin I don't know about?"
I gave a small, apologetic smile. "No twin, sadly. I know it's a lot to ask, and I wouldn't if it weren't important. My friend Josh… he's pitching in a big baseball game tomorrow morning. He's been training for weeks, and I've missed every game so far. I just really want to be there for this one."
Mr. Ramsey leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "This isn't high school volunteering, Ava. This is work. If I let one person take time off last-minute, I've got six more asking for the same."
"I understand completely," I said softly, meeting his eyes. "You've always been so fair, and I'm really grateful for the chances you've given me here. I just—Josh is like a brother to me. He always shows up for me. I just want to do the same for him. I'll come straight in after. I'll even close, if you need."
He was quiet for a moment, tapping his pen on the desk.
I added, "And I'll take the first double shift that opens next week."
He huffed, half a sigh, half a grunt. "You don't stop being polite even when you're negotiating, do you?"
I smiled softly. "I guess not, sir."
"Fine," he said finally. "Morning off. But I want you here no later than four. Don't make me regret it."
Relief bloomed in my chest. "You won't. Thank you, Mr. Ramsey. Really."
He waved me off. "Go make sure the tables aren't still sticky."
I nodded and slipped out, a smile lingering on my face. For once, tomorrow wouldn't be about coffee or tips or checklists. It would be about cheering for someone who mattered.
_ _ _ _
— Alexander —
I stepped into the café, immediately regretting letting Theo talk me into this place. The air smelled like cinnamon syrup and poor life choices. Cozy. Cramped. Definitely not my scene.
"Place isn't half bad," Theo said beside me, already scoping out the menu.
I didn't bother responding. My eyes were already moving across the room—habit, instinct. Not for anything in particular. Just assessing.
That's when I saw her.
She was wiping down a table, head slightly bowed, sleeves rolled to her elbows like she belonged here. Black curly hair . Small frame. Quiet energy.
Something about her face made my brain tick.
I narrowed my eyes. I knew her.
It clicked.
Same school. She was the one from Lit class—the girl who practically bit my head off when I called Helena from midsummer night dream pick-me. Said she wasn't. Said it with that infuriating fire in her eyes, like I'd insulted a living person.
Right. That girl.
Avaline… something. I remembered now. Quiet, but opinionated. The worst kind.
I didn't acknowledge her. Just moved to the counter, ordered my drink, and let Theo ramble on about Saturday's game.
"Coach is finally letting Carter start as pitcher," Theo said as we found a table. "About time. Dude's arm is ridiculous."
"Should've happened two games ago," I said flatly, sliding into the seat. "We need the win. We're not dropping another match to westhill high."
Theo nodded, then smirked. "By the way—guess who's coming to watch us play?"
I didn't look at him. "No idea. Don't care."
"Emily. You know, the blonde one from Parker House. You were into her for like five minutes before she ghosted you for Travis."
I gave a short laugh, more of a scoff really, and stared out the window. "Wasn't into her."
"Yeah, sure, man," he said, chuckling.
I let my eyes drift—just for a second—and caught a glimpse of her again. Avaline. Still working. Still quiet. She moved like she wanted to disappear.
She wasn't pretty in the obvious way, but there was something… sharp about her. Like she saw everything and said nothing. Unsettling.
She looked up. Briefly. Brown eyes, steady.
I didn't look away.
Neither did she.
And then she blinked, turned back to her cleaning like I didn't exist.
Fine by me.
I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of coffee. Burned my tongue a little. Figures.
I didn't like her. Not really.
Didn't hate her either.
She was just… there.
And for some reason, I noticed.
_ _ _ _
--Avaline--
By the time I got home, the sky had already darkened into a soft, moody indigo. The kind of color that makes you feel like you're late for something—even if you're not. I slipped through the front door quietly, the faint smell of tomato stew wafting from the kitchen, warming the air like a hug I didn't know I needed.
Dinner was simple. Comforting. Mom asked about my day. Dad asked if I'd eaten enough. And Simon, well—Simon launched into an epic tale about how he won a game of tag by hiding in the bushes like a "spy ninja ghost." I laughed. Not the tired, polite kind. A real one. The kind that reaches your chest and lets you forget for a second how much pressure is squeezing it.
After dinner, Simon insisted I play with him. Just for a bit. We built a fort out of pillows and blankets, and he declared it a "no-college-talk zone." I almost cried at that. But I didn't. Instead, I crawled inside, let him put a plastic crown on my head, and became Queen Avaline of Pillowtopia for fifteen whole minutes.
Then, of course, real life knocked.
"Avaline," Mom said gently from the hallway, "can we talk for a moment?"
We sat in the living room, the TV on low, casting flickering lights across the walls. Dad joined us, arms crossed but eyes soft. I knew what was coming before they even said it.
"How's everything going with your application?" Mom asked.
I nodded. "It's… going." I didn't elaborate. I couldn't. Because the words Mr. Dawson and recommendation letter and what if I don't get the scholarship? were like tiny thorns in my throat.
Mom smiled, the kind that tries to hide its worry. "We've been talking, and if the scholarship doesn't work out, I can pick up more shifts at the library. Maybe even help catalog for the university in the evenings."
Dad added, "And I've spoken to my supervisor about taking on extra hours—just in case. We'll do whatever it takes, Ava."
I blinked fast. My throat burned. "You guys… I don't even know what to say."
"Just focus," Mom said, brushing a curl from my cheek. "That's your job. We'll handle the rest."
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Thank you. Really. I—I don't deserve you guys."
They didn't respond. They didn't need to. The way Dad squeezed my shoulder and Mom kissed the top of my head said more than words could.
Later, I showered, letting the water wash away the day's weight. When I peeled off my bra, I winced. The familiar ache settled over my chest—the pressure I lived with, both inside and out. I hated how heavy they felt. How I always had to wear a tight inner just to make them look… less. Smaller. More manageable. But the relief of taking it all off was always followed by discomfort, a reminder that even breathing freely sometimes hurt.
I slipped into my softest nightwear and climbed into bed just as my phone buzzed.
Josh.
> Don't be late love💞
I smiled a little despite myself.
> Of course I won't be 😌
A second later:
> Don't forget to bring your 🐕
I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might stick.
> Josh… will you stop calling her that? I'm sure you'll be sad if she misses the match 🙄
There was a pause, then:
> I'm sorry mama 🥺 Good night tho
Got to sleep early 😴
> Bye Josh 😽
> Good night 😌
I stared at the last message a moment longer before turning off my phone. The screen went dark, and the room filled with silence again.
Lying there in the quiet, I whispered a small prayer into the dark—Please let the scholarship come through. Not for me. For them.
Then I rolled over and finally let myself rest.