After finishing their lunch, Isabella and Sofia made their way back to the classroom. The hallways buzzed with chatter, but Isabella remained unusually quiet. Normally she was quick to raise her hand in lectures, sharp with answers, but today she sat in silence, her gaze drifting toward the window. Sofia assumed her friend was still dwelling on what she'd said at lunch about their future apart, but the truth was far heavier. Isabella's thoughts weren't on friendship. They were tangled around a single word – Risk. Steve's voice echoed inside her like stubborn bell, convincing her that risk was the only doorway to a better life.
By the time the last lecture ended, Isabella felt drained. Sofia nudged her lightly. "Want to go to the mall? Just a little shopping?"
Isabella forced a small smile but shook her head. "I can't. I have my evening shift at the café."
Sofia hid her disappointment, though not because Isabella refused. She only wished her friend didn't have to work so hard – juggling studies, a part-time job, and the crushing weight of her family's needs. Watching Isabella push herself so relentlessly sometimes broke Sofia's heart.
Isabella walked briskly through the dusky streets, the thought of her shift gnawing at her. She reached the café, slipped into the restroom, and changed into her uniform. When she stepped out, she looked the part of a diligent waitress: a crisp white button-up shirt tucked neatly into a knee-length black skirt, a slim black apron tied snugly at the waist, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail with loose strands brushing her cheeks. Her black shoes were worn from long hours on her feet, but she still carried herself with quite grace.
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She tried to focus on her duties scribbling orders in her notepad, pouring water for customers, and delivering dishes to tables. But her mind was elsewhere. She wiped down table number two so many times the surface practically gleamed, forgetting she had already cleaned it. She poured water until it spilled over the glass, murmuring quick apologies as she rushed to fetch napkins. Her distractedness grew more obvious when she served an entire set of orders to the wrong table.
Frustration stirred among the customers. Their irritation filled the air like static. Isabella's chest tightened, but she pushed on, carrying more plates in trembling hands. As she stepped toward another table, her foot snagged against a customer's stretched-out leg. She stumbled, catching her balance at last second, but one dish slipped and crashed onto a woman's dress.
The café erupted. The woman shot up from her chair, furious, her husband's face twisted in equal anger. "You ruined my clothes!" the woman spat. "Are you fucking blind?" her husband barked.
They lunched forward as if to strike her, but before the moment could spiral further, Mrs. Megan-the manager – rushed over. She caught the woman's raised hand mid-air, her expression firm yet pleading.
"Please, sir, ma'am... I'm truly sorry on behalf of my employee," Mrs. Megan said, her tone calm but authoritative. "Tonight's bill will be on the house. I promise this won't happen again. But I cannot allow you to harm my staff."
TO BE CONTIUED...
