The voice echoed up the stairs, sharp enough to slice through her sleep. 

“I’m up!” she yelled back, voice hoarse and annoyed. Her eyes blinked open—and panic hit. 

“Fudge! I overslept!” She flung the blanket aside, jumped out of bed, and threw on jersey shorts and an oversized shirt. A quick look in the mirror showed last night’s makeup smeared across her face. She wiped at the eyeliner, tied her messy black hair into a bun, and rushed out the door, her bare feet thudding against the wooden floor.

“Allie! Are you awake?” the voice called again. 

“Yes! I’m coming down!” she shouted, trying not to trip on the stairs. 

Allison Kelley lived with her sick mother and her younger sister, Raffi. Their father—well, he was long gone, walked out the moment life got hard. So it had always been the three of them against the world. Her mom, her hero, her heart.  Raffi, her sister, her steady anchor.  Allie prided herself on being the strong one—the one who patched things up, worked two jobs, and refused to break. Maybe too strong sometimes. 

Raffi was waiting for her in the kitchen, tapping her foot and shaking her head. “Breakfast is ready,” Raffi said. “Mom and I were about to head out. I’ll drop her at chemo before class. Aunt Leila’s meeting us there, so don’t worry.” Allie hurried over to her mom, who was sitting by the table—frail, but smiling as always. Allie leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“Good morning, Mom. I’m sorry your ever-so-beautiful daughter overslept again,” she said with an exaggerated grin. Her mother chuckled softly and brushed a strand of hair from Allie’s face. 

“Oh, honey, it’s fine. You’ve been working too much lately. Did you go out on a date last night, maybe?” Allie laughed, hugging her mom tighter. 

“Ha! You’re really getting better at those jokes, Mom. No dates. Just work.” Her mom smiled knowingly but didn’t push.

As Raffi and their mom left, Allie exhaled, sat at the table, and opened her phone. The screen glared back—low balance, endless bills. She sighed. Gotta make more. Somehow. Thank goodness Raffi’s scholarship covered tuition, and they still lived in their late grandparents’ house. But with medical bills, medications, and daily expenses, everything still felt like treading water. She shook her head, snapping herself out of the spiral, and shoveled a few bites of breakfast into her mouth before dashing to the shower. 

Allie was short, fit, and full of life—compact energy wrapped in warmth and motion. Her skin had a sun-touched glow, and her wide, coffee-colored eyes carried a brightness that drew people in. She had soft features framed by loose waves of black hair that never seemed to stay perfectly in place, no matter how she tied it up. Her smile was her signature —radiant, confident, and disarming, the kind that could make strangers feel seen. Her wardrobe reflected her spirit: punk-preppy, layered jewelry, thrifted finds, sneakers, and her beloved black Dr. Martens. She carried herself with effortless confidence, even on the days she was running on fumes. At night, her style shifted—rock chic, bold, a mix of eyeliner and edge that made her look like she could take on the world. She worked mornings as a barista at Coppa Café, and a bartender at nights at Lila’s, a bustling downtown bar. 

A hospitality graduate with a food and beverage management minor, Allie once dreamed of managing her own café. But dreams didn’t pay chemo bills. 

Coppa Café was in full swing that morning. The smell of coffee beans and caramel syrup filled the air. The indie playlist hummed softly. Laughter, chatter, and the hiss of steaming milk created a rhythm she’d grown to love. She moved like clockwork behind the counter—pour, stir, smile, repeat. 

A few months in, she already knew most regulars by heart. But one, in particular, stood out: the man with glasses. He came in every morning, like clockwork—crisp shirt, quiet voice, and the same to-go order every time. He barely lingered, always in a hurry, yet somehow he managed to make the smallest moment feel deliberate. Then, every evening, he returned. Not rushed this time, but calm, settled, and always at the same corner table by the window. That was his routine. Morning grab-and-go, evening sit-and-stay. When the day dimmed and the café quieted, he’d sit there with his newspaper, doing crossword puzzles like it was still 1998. Who even does that anymore? She couldn’t decide if he was charmingly mysterious or just… weird. Probably weird, she thought as she handed a latte to a customer. Or maybe just rich and bored. Either way, he was part of her rhythm now—like the smell of espresso or the low hum of music during closing hour.And she hated to admit—it felt oddly empty when he wasn’t there. 

That night at Lila’s, the crowd was wild, the lights dim, and the music pulsing through the floorboards.  Allie slipped into her second persona: confident, flirty, fast. Clarisse, her best friend, leaned against the bar with a grin.

“Hey! How’s Mom doing?” 

“She’s okay,” Allie said. “The treatments are rough, but she’s handling it like a champ.” Clarisse smiled.

“That’s good. Oh—by the way, our gallery’s hosting an art show next month. We need catering for charcuterie and drinks. I told my boss you’d be perfect.”

“Cla, I love you!” Allie said, blowing her a kiss. 

“Of course you do. You’re basically family.” 

A woman approached the bar—tall, stunning, and polished. Expensive perfume. Flawless skin. Confidence radiated off her. 

“Two shots of tequila, please,” she said. Allie’s eyes widened. 

“Jessica? Oh my God, it’s been ages!” Jessica’s lips curved into a grin. 

“Allie! I knew that was you! Yeah, I’m back from Japan— business trip.” Clarisse raised an eyebrow.

“Looks like life’s treating you well.” Jessica smirked. 

“You could say that. I’m a hostess at a luxury club. The money’s great.” Clarisse’s voice went sharp. “Hostess, huh? So… escort?” Jessica rolled her eyes. 

“Excuse you—it’s hostess, thank you. It’s a legitimate job. Anyway, Allie, if you’re interested, we’re hiring a manager. I can put in a word.” Clarisse’s jaw dropped. 

“You’re not actually—” Allie shot her a warning glance. 

“Cla, stop.” Jessica smiled, left her card on the counter, and sauntered off with her tequila.

Clarisse turned back to her. “You’re not seriously considering that, are you?” Allie didn’t answer. She just shrugged and handed another customer their drink. When they said, “Keep the change,” she smiled—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Hours later, the house was quiet when Allie got home. Her mom and Raffi were asleep, the faint sound of the TV humming from the living room. 

On the dining table, a plate of food waited under foil with a note beside it: 

 Allie sat down and stared at it, her chest tightening. Tears came before she could stop them—silent, steady, unstoppable. She wiped her cheeks, ate a few bites, then retreated to her room. Lying in bed, she checked her bank account again. Nothing had changed. Her fingers hovered over her phone before opening her email. She began typing inquiries for extra catering gigs, weekend events—and that résumé. Her mind buzzed with exhaustion, but her body wouldn’t stop moving. Because she couldn’t afford to stop.

Not when everything—and everyone—she loved depended on her.