Kalila Miracle Hart

My tummy is grumbling again, why do I always feel like eating whenever I am stressed? And why am I always stressed? I let out a loud sigh.

Let's just focus on getting through this day.

After the coffee fiasco, I was bowing my head and begging the cafeteria supervisor for forgiveness over the disaster I'd made of the uniform. Now I need to have it washed, I wish I could wash it myself but she rambled about how that shitty uniform cost a lot, it needs to be spotless and brand new when I return it, so I have no choice but to send it to a laundry service, or something.

So now, I need an extra cash.

I'm juggling part-time jobs because I'm saving up to buy my aunt a car. She works all the way in the city, and a car would shave at least 30 minutes off her commute—assuming traffic isn't being a total nightmare. She usually gets home late waiting for bus schedules, and I know having her own car would make things so much easier for her.

Currently, I have three part-time jobs. Every Wednesday afternoon, I work here at the grocery store after my early classes. On Saturdays, I work at Craig's Diner, and on Sundays, I work at a small coffee shop near school. However, with summer break starting tomorrow, I'll be able to pick up extra hours and that means extra cash. Then maybe I could finally buy her one before the next school year starts.

"Oh, you're here?" My boss pops his head around the door, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

"Sorry for being late, boss. Something came up," I say, tying my hair into a ponytail. The elastic snaps back against my wrist, and I wince slightly.

"That's alright. There are some customers here. Can you take them?" He fidgets nervously, shifting from one foot to the other. "I need to go to the bathroom real quick."

Ah, that's why.

"Got it, boss," I say, heading inside and immediately positioning myself behind the counter.

This grocery store isn't very big. We only have two counters, and I can see the entire store from here thanks to the mirrors and security cameras strategically placed around. My boss has a history with robberies, a trauma he never really got over. The store's past is evident in the hypervigilant setup. It's not surprising, given that I know this place better than anyone; danger lurks around every corner here.

A man in a black suit approaches the counter, placing two cans of soda and a bag of chips down. A scar runs from his forehead to just above his eye, cutting through his eyebrow. He looks like a thug, but what thug wears a suit like that? A mafia, maybe?

If I ignore the scar, he's quite handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a skyscraper. It's moments like these that makes feel so insecure about my height, others seem to hoard all the good genes.

"Can you wait for a moment?" he says politely. Now I feel shitty about judging him. He seems like a nice guy. "My boss is still getting some pudding."

Oh, There's another one?

Not long after, another guy pops out. I recognize the uniform immediately— the sight of that familiar clothes makes me shiver. He doesn't even need a pin for me to know he isn't a scholar. But looking at him holding pudding makes him less intimidating, he's scanning  the puddings in his hands, very intensely that it looks like his life depends on it.

"I think that's too much pudding," the scar-faced guy says, helping him place everything on the counter.

I might be as plain as white paper, and I'll admit I go out of my way to dodge social interactions whenever possible. But if there's one thing I'm confident in, it's my taste in men. I know a hot guy when I see one. And for the record, I'm not easily swayed by looks—but this guy?

I'm impress.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he looks like he's built for sports. Yet his hands—elegant and refined—suggest a life untouched by dust or hardship. His fair skin only enhances the striking contrast of his hazel-green eyes, framed by long lashes and thick, defined eyebrows. Every feature of his face—his lips, his nose—is in perfect harmony, as though crafted with intention. He look like he do art, though I could be wrong. And that buzz cut? It's effortlessly sharp. I never thought anyone could make such a bold style work, but he pulls it off flawlessly.

I always knew there were good-looking people in the main building, but this man makes me question everything. Are there others who look this good? Or someone even better? Maybe a girl, someone so stunning that—what am I even thinking.

"That's not even enough," he said, his voice smooth and rich, like honey stirred into whiskey.

I tend to jump to conclusions when meeting people for the first time. Maybe it's because I'm a psych major, or maybe I'm just a 'judge a book by its cover' type of person. But I can't be wrong when I say that this guy could charm a married woman away with just a word. I hope I'm exaggerating to ease my insecurities, but seeing him. No, I'm not.

He is really a gorgeous man.

"Miss?" he called out, his tone sharp as he looked at me like I was some kind of weirdo. I almost rolled my eyes. "Do you take card?" His irritation was clear—probably because I'd been staring at him for too long. Lowering my gaze, I focused on the cash register, trying to hide my embarrassment.

"Ah, yes," I stammered, my voice unsteady. When he handed me his black card, I nearly let out a squeal. I'd never seen one in real life before—let alone held one.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked again, his tone persistent.

"No, sir," I replied quickly, swiping his card just to get this over with.

"I think there is," he pressed.

"It's the uniform," I said flatly, hoping that would shut him up.

"Oh, this? What's up with it?" My goodness, why can't rich people ever take a hint?

"I also have one," I whispered, quickly handing his card back. I really didn't want to drag this conversation out any longer. "Thank you for shopping, have a nice night," I added, forcing a smile.

Before he could utter a reply, the scar-faced man yanked him out the door. The tension eased from my chest, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I could finally breathe again. Now that they left the store became quite again, all I could think about now was the clock ticking down to the end of my shift. I will be off at eight, and Aunt should be home around then, too. Maybe I'd grab some food to bring back home.

The thought of bringing food for dinner makes my heart flutter. I never expected to come this far in life. My Aunt always asks me what my dream is, and I always answer to raise dogs and cats. She laughs at me for being so humble, but I'm not humble at all. When you want to raise pets, you should always make sure you raise them well.

Raising dogs and cats comes with having a large house and a large yard. It also comes with food, toys, and beds. Of course, you need to drive them to their vets or groomers, so you need a car. So, I don't really think it's a small dream. The more I live, the more I crave things that are out of reach, and that's the human in me.

But I don't think it's a bad idea. After all, everything I do is a form of gratitude to God for giving me a second chance at life. Back then, I thought people taking their own lives were brave. It turns out the people who continue to live despite wanting to die are braver.

I'm glad I'm one of those people.

Sometimes I ask myself, what would happen if I didn't run away from home, and my mind always thought of one answer and one answer only, I will still end with a sharp blade on my neck. Speaking of old life, I haven't heard anything new from my dad yet. Of course, dummy your avoiding him. But usually, Aunt will tell me Dad went to visit again when I'm in school. Maybe I'll ask her later. 

When my shift ended, I decided to take home some burgers and steaks from Craig's. Aunt and Marco love these burgers. After picking up dinner, I made my way back home, feeling the weight of the day lifting off my shoulders with each step. Our house is a cozy, two-story building nestled in a quiet neighborhood. The exterior is painted a soft yellow, with white trim that gives it a cheerful, welcoming look. The front yard is small but well-maintained, with a few flower beds that Aunt takes pride in. Inside, the living room is the heart of our home, with comfortable, mismatched furniture that somehow fits perfectly together. Photos of us and knick-knacks fill every available surface. The kitchen, where Aunt spends most of her time, is warm and inviting, with the aroma of homemade meals lingering in the air.

As I walked in, the familiar creak of the front door announced my arrival. My heart skipped a beat when I heard footsteps upstairs; Aunt was still on her way home. Panic surged through me, and I frantically grabbed the nearest thing that might serve as a weapon—a rubber chicken from the toy bin.

Ah Fuck it.

The absurdity of it didn't lessen my fear, nor my panic, I'm too scared to be scrambling for a knife or a pan right now, I'll just have to make it work somehow.

Just like my life. Focus Kalila!

At this point I completely forgot that I took self-defense classes, I cautiously crept upstairs, heart pounding. When I reached the top, I was ready to face whatever danger awaited, only to find Marco standing there, looking just as surprised to see me with a rubber chicken poised for attack.

"What the hell is that?" His voice sounded concerned, but his face was barely holding back his laughter.

"Don't laugh." I said, trying not looked as embarrass as I feel.

"Do you really think you could kill me with that, really Kalila?" he burst into laughter, doubling over and clutching his sides.

I flushed, lowering my ridiculous weapon. "I was panicking! And you know I could've knocked you down just fine, so it doesn't matter. Besides, I never thought you were coming home today."

"Well, you definitely made my day," he said, still chuckling. "I'll be sure to tell everyone how my brave Kalila was ready to fend off an intruder with a rubber chicken."

I rolled my eyes, trying to hide my embarrassment. "It was the first thing I saw, okay? And I was just trying to protect the house."

"Sure, sure," Marco teased, shaking his head. "Next time, maybe try for something a bit more threatening. Like a spatula or a spoon maybe."

"Very funny," I muttered, though I couldn't help but smile. "Just wait until Aunt gets here I'm going to tell her, your making fun of me."

As if on cue, we heard the front door open and Aunt's cheerful voice calling out. "I'm home! What's all this commotion?"

"Mom!" Marco shouted, still laughing. "You won't believe what just happened. Kalila thought there was an intruder and grabbed a rubber chicken to defend herself!"

Aunt walked into the room, raising an eyebrow as she took in the scene. "A rubber chicken, really? Kalila?"

"Did you know he was coming?" I ask her, sweat dripping from the adrenaline I had earlier.

"Yeah, he called." She said while casually putting her coat on the rack.

"So I'm the only one who didn't know?" I felt left behind all of a sudden.

She kicks off her shoes and places them neatly under the rack "Don't be dramatic. Let's eat I'm famished, Marco set up the table."

Marco sets up the table still giggling like a child "Well, I love being dramatic, why would I want to show any other emotions when I have the option to completely lose my mind, while your son is laughing at how he almost gave me a heart attack." I said, rolling my eyes.

"Oh, there you go again." She sighs. "At least that rubber chicken is pretty funny, it's good to know you're creative under pressure." Then they burst out laughing.

Their laughter filled not just our home but myheart, I hope it's going to be like this every day.