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. . .

Twenty-Two Years Later

Mia

“ W hat the hell was that? You’re supposed to cover me when I go in,” my boyfriend, Justin, screams at the TV, his fingers jabbing frantically at the controller. “Now we’ve lost the whole fucking match because of you!”

My shoulders tense as I wince at how loud he’s being. But he couldn’t care less about how I feel.

The pan sizzles as I pour in the eggs, watching them bubble at the edges.

It’s been three weeks since he lost his job at the warehouse, and this is all he does- playing games from dawn until I get home, sometimes well into the night.

He promised he’d look for work, showed me job listings on his phone, and even mentioned an interview that mysteriously got rescheduled twice before he stopped trying altogether.

“Justin,” I call over my shoulder. “Do you want some eggs? ”

The spatula scrapes against the pan as I push the edges toward the center, but he doesn’t respond.

The oversized headset covers his ears completely, his attention focused solely on the screen, where animated characters move in vivid bursts of color.

I don’t try again. Better to be ignored than snapped at.

My stomach growls as I slide the eggs onto a plate. I didn’t have dinner last night. I was way too tired after my double shift at the café to do more than shower and collapse into bed while Justin had been gaming all night.

“Jesus, babe, maybe you should skip breakfast sometimes,” he says, and I freeze, spatula suspended mid-air. I didn’t realize he’d taken off his headset. His eyes flick from my face to my midsection before returning to the screen. “Just saying. Those jeans were already tight this week.”

I bite my lip, the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. I focus on breathing, on the simple act of transferring eggs from pan to plate without dropping anything, without revealing how deeply his words cut.

“I need to eat,” I say quietly, my voice smaller than I intended. “I’m on my feet for eight hours at the cafe.”

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, pinching the soft flesh there through my sweater.

When did I get so... soft? It wasn’t noticeable, was it?

But if Justin sees it, then customers probably do, too.

The thought makes my chest tighten with embarrassment.

I just don’t have time to go to the gym when I’m the one supporting us.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugs, adjusting his headset. “You’re the one who’s always complaining about your clothes not fitting.”

I wasn’t. I’d mentioned once, just once, that my work apron felt tighter- a passing comment that he filed away to use against me later.

The fork feels heavy in my hand as I shovel eggs into my mouth. I don’t bother to sit. Standing makes eating faster and makes escape closer. The eggs taste like nothing. It tastes like dust. I swallow mechanically. Each bite is a chore, my eyes fixed on the clock above the stove.

“You could be a little nicer to me, you know,” I finally say, my emotions boiling inside me. “The comments about my weight... it kind of hurts, Justin.”

He sighs dramatically, pausing his game and looking at me like I’m a particularly slow child. “Mia, I’m just looking out for you. If I don’t tell you, who will? Your coworkers are too nice to say anything, but I guarantee they notice, and they’ll never promote you.”

“That’s not something…”

“It’s for your own good,” he cuts me off. “I’m being honest because I care. Would you rather I lie and tell you everything’s fine when it’s not?”

My throat tightens. “There’s a difference between honesty and being mean.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Justin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m trying to help you. If you don’t want my help, fine. Keep eating whatever you want.”

The remaining eggs on my plate suddenly look revolting.

I dump them into the trash, my stomach churning with a mix of hunger and shame. The clock says it’s time to leave anyway. I grab my coat from the hook by the door, shrugging it on with jerky movements.

“I’ll be back at three,” I say, reaching for my purse.

“Can you grab me some of those cheesy pretzels on your way back?” Justin calls, already reimmersed in his game. “From the gas station.”

The gas station is six blocks in the opposite direction from our apartment. My feet already ache just thinking about the extra walking I'll have to do after my shift .

“Sure,” I agree because it’s easier than arguing, easier than dealing with his mood if I refuse. “Need anything else?”

“Nah, just the pretzels.”

The chilly morning air stings my cheeks as I pull my coat tighter around my body, but the bite of cold is welcome after the suffocating air of my apartment.

Walking is my favorite part of the day. Twenty precious minutes when I’m neither Justin’s emotional punching bag nor the cafe’s smiling barista.

Each step puts more distance between me and Justin’s cutting words, between me and the cramped apartment with its stale air and unceasing gaming sounds.

My pace quickens naturally as if my body can’t wait to escape his orbit.

A year ago, we still had the car, a beat-up Honda that Justin claimed was ‘vintage,’ but it was just old.

I didn’t mind it. It got me to work when it rained, brought us to the grocery store, and gave me some semblance of freedom.

Then came the night when Justin, drunk after a party, wrapped it around a pole. He walked away with a sprained wrist and some scratches. The car was declared totaled, and the insurance money was spent on gaming equipment rather than a replacement vehicle.

“We’re close enough to everything,” he’d argued. “You like walking anyway.”

My fingers tingle with cold inside my pockets as I turn onto Cherry Street.

The morning traffic hums beside me, cars filled with people heading to jobs they might hate, but still show up for.

I wiggle my toes in my sneakers, trying to keep them warm.

I should buy better winter shoes, but that would mean asking Justin for money from our shared account, which is the last thing I want to do since it’s for rent.

By the time I reach the cafe, my nose is numb and pink, but something in me feels cleansed by the cold. The cafe sits on the corner, its windows already fogged with steam from the espresso machines and the breath of early customers.

The wooden sign above the door, Brewed Awakening , swings slightly in the breeze.

I push the door open, and the bell above jingles cheerfully.

Immediately, I’m enveloped in warmth- the rich aroma of coffee beans and the buzz of conversation.

The line stretches almost to the door, with businesspeople checking their watches impatiently and college students staring blearily at their phones; everyone in need of caffeine to kickstart their day.

Behind the counter, it’s controlled chaos.

Alice darts between the register and the espresso machine, her short red hair bobbing with each movement. A stack of empty cups waits beside her, each marked with specific orders in her neat handwriting.

“Hey, Mia!” She catches sight of me, relief washing over her flushed face even as she steams milk for a latte. “Glad you’re here early. Think you can clock in now and jump in?”

I’m not due for another fifteen minutes, but I nod, already shrugging off my coat. The extra fifteen minutes mean extra pay, and every dollar counts when Justin contributes nothing to our rent.

“Morning rush hit hard?” I ask, though the answer is obvious, as I squeeze past waiting customers to reach the employee area.

“Like a tsunami,” Alice laughs, handing off a completed drink to a suited man who barely looks up from his phone. “Todd called in sick, and Jasmine’s running late. It’s just been me since six.”

I punch in my code into the time clock system, then quickly wash my hands in the small sink.

“I’ll take the register,” I tell Alice, tying an apron around my waist without thinking about whether it feels tighter today. Right now, it doesn’t matter. “You focus on drinks.”

The line of customers shifts forward eagerly as I appear at the register, my customer service smile sliding into place. It’s not entirely fake. There’s relief in being busy, having clear tasks, and knowing what's expected of you. No one here will comment on my weight or remind me of my failures.

They just want their coffee made well and served quickly.

“Good morning,” I greet the first customer, a woman in a red coat who’s been checking her watch repeatedly. “What can I get started for you today?”

As I take her order and the next and the next, my fingers flying over the register keys, I feel myself settling into the rhythm of the cafe. The morning rush is overwhelming, but in a way that leaves no room for thoughts of Justin and no space for self-doubt.