The Friday afternoon shift was without a doubt the most tiring, busy and mentally exhausting day to be working. It was this very shift that made Will re-evaluate his life choice as he served sponge cakes to the endless stream of mothers, school children and the elderly in his half-awake state. Remember to take into account that Will worked on a Saturday; when all the tweens arrived on mass. However, if there was going to be a day when he would stop, fling his apron on the ground, and run outside to meet his small cluster of friends, it would be on a Friday. Most likely when, inevitably, some small child would throw up the cupcake he had given them merely half an hour beforehand.

With too much effort, Will swiped the bank card against the machine and strained his eyes to read the registration for the customer's payment. With a yawn he looked over to the customer, "Here's your receipt. I hope you have a nice day."

Will handed the mother of two screaming children the flimsy piece of paper before almost rolling his head to view the next customer. Trying not to focus on the ever-growing queue, he grimaced at how more loud toddlers or excited new mums were crowding up the tables inside. Even in this current state of pure fatigue Will still found time to check each customer's face.

He knew he was looking for some kind of stereotype. Of what, he wasn't exactly sure yet. Sure, Will had made certain assumptions from his last discovery as to what was going on. None of the people who almost always came in on his shift fit the bill. Or if they somehow did fit into his typecast, they always seemed to escape it just as quickly. Either ordering an extravagant piece of sugary food or only coming in with friends, all the people he was suspicious of seemed to just be... normal.

Perhaps it was wrong that he called them normal. The person writing the letter was probably not any different from him. If what he had assumed from the letters was true then they, or she as Will was beginning to think, was just struggling with something he simply did not understand. That didn't make them abnormal.

Perhaps it was also wrong that Will was doing this in the first place. He was intruding on someone's personal life, yet he couldn't help it. It wasn't as if he could do anything if he even uncovered the identity of the writer, but the thought of knowing kept him going. The ideology of finding out what was basically a secret motivated Will to look at everyone who filtered through the cafe door.

It was kind of ironic how, if Will was correct, someone like her was occupying some of their time in a cafe. Some place he would have thought they would avoid immensely.

Checking the time, he noted how there was only an hour of opening time left to go before he could tidy up. From the looks of the dirty saucers and cups littering the table, some of which the manager had left for him to clean up, it looked like he would be back later tonight. Which was probably a good thing, considering his mum was still childishly refusing to speak to him. At least Leon found family life amusing.

Will wasn't particularly impressed - a growing trend nowadays - that his manager didn't seem to have the time anymore to tidy up the tables before she left. It started on the Monday afternoon when she spluttered out a vague apology before rushing out to pick her children up from school merely seconds after he arrived. Will thought she said there was some kind of emergency but wasn't quite sure.

It was a wonder the small business stayed running.

Well, after that, she just seemed to leave more and more jobs for him to do. It wasn't as if Will had the time. On his own, he had to leave the tables a mess, as most of the time he was busy manning the till. To top it all off Will had also been asked to help out for the whole day on Saturday, not just the afternoons which he normally did. Of course, he said yes, but that wasn't the point.

It was when Will was evaluating how his life sucked, ironically, when he hit a sudden realisation.

Maybe the writer of the unsent letters wasn't even visiting on his shift. The mysterious notes only really started appearing this week, just when his manager had been too busy to tidy up the customers mess. He was following a very small thread, he knew that, but Will thought this theory was probably a bit more realistic than him simply missing the customer. He didn't deny his pride.

"Excuse me?" A customer interrupted, their order and money on the counter. Awkwardly coughing Will took the money and processed the purchase, his gaze flicking across the build up of mess left on the tables in hopes that he would see something vaguely familiar.

He knew it was a long shot. Will's eyesight wasn't perfect at the best of times, and it wasn't going to miraculously change now. If anything it was probably going to worsen.

Will shivered. After trying on his friends glasses one rather open minded day he found out that he did not mix well with them. No, Will needed to avoid them like the devil. Or, more accurately, like his mum was doing to him at the moment.

Glancing up at the clock he smiled at how quickly the time was passing for once. The customers were realising it too because before long they dawdled out the cafe just like they had come in, leaving the room a much quieter place. With a smile Will handed the receipt to the very last customer and gleefully watched as they took their small flapjack outside.

He was free. At least, with all the mess they had left behind. But even that wasn't stopping Will's small grin. Taking the same grubby tray he went to clear up just like he had done so many times before, but this time his fingers flipped through every single piece of paper that was left behind.

Regrettably, Will had just reached the halfway point of clearing up and found nothing. He couldn't quite believe it. It was stupid for him to think the writer would be daily, when they hadn't really been before, but he jumped to that conclusion anyway. With a sigh he forced himself to carry on. His motivation did rise when he looked through the table which he had found the previous two letters on, but it fell just as quickly when there was nothing.

The Friday afternoon feeling was starting to return again. Will didn't have the energy to push it away.

Moving over to the last collection of small tables at the back, Will collapsed onto a comfy looking seat, mentally exhausted. He leaned his back and head against the uncomfortable wall, his gaze lowering as it hovered over the table. That's when he noticed it. At the start he couldn't quite believe it, but not wanting to raise his hopes too high, he just bypassed the scribbled paper like it was nothing.

But that didn't stop his mind starting to whirl. The more he avoided the paper, the more his mind focused on it. A few small seconds was all it took before Will's hand shot out and almost tore the paper as he opened it.

Just another shopping list.

He couldn't expect too much. Will knew that.

However, it seemed some other outcome was meant to come out that day. Probability, luck, or something else caused Will to carry on tidying the tables. He picked up more papers, hardly checking them, before stuffing them inside the cups and saucers for the bin. Picking up another cup he sighed when he found out it was weighing down some more rubbish.

But this time it wasn't rubbish. Oh, no, this wasn't another shopping list. Will had found it.

Dear Charlie,

I wasn't sure whether to write your full name of Charlotte. But then what's the point of doing that now when I never used to do it in the first place? It doesn't seem right to change it now.

I'm writing because I wanted to say I appreciate everything you have done. The small messages of support were nice. When you opened up to me, the first person you had done so with, I felt valued for once. So for that I am grateful.

I know you want an answer. Everyone in our friendship group wants an answer for me not being there. I've counted up the weeks I have not been to school and part of me hates and loves not going. But I suppose you want a reason. I can't tell you in person. I can't even tell you in writing.

I've imagined saying this so many times to you, to every one of my friends.

Please know that it is as awkward for me writing this as it is for you reading this. I'm only going to say this once, and I don't want you to mention it in my presence ever again. You said you were ashamed of what the doctors think you have? Well, I understood that far more than you realised. I don't mind if you tell our other friends. I don't think I can. You being the messenger would probably be easier.

And yet, after all of this, I still can't write it down. I can't. I don't think I will ever be able to do so. Maybe when I'm better I can accept it but what you suspect, I think at least, is most likely to be true. Please understand I'm trying to get better. I'm going to get better.

I'm just not sure when.