The metallic clang of a pot hitting the sink echoed through the restaurant's kitchen, mixing with the soft hum of the dishwasher and the low chatter of the exhausted staff.

Steam rose from the industrial sinks, carrying the faint scent of leftover garlic, oil, and tonight's special—roast chicken with balsamic glaze. It was nearing midnight, and the place had slowed down from the bustling chaos of earlier.

Most of the guests had long since gone, leaving behind half-empty wine glasses, crumbs, and hastily abandoned napkins on the mahogany tables.

We were on the last stretch of the night. The final push. It was that moment where everyone just wanted to go home, but there were still too many things to do. There always were. Every second dragged, stretching into something painful as we wiped down tables, swept floors, and bussed the remaining dishes back to the kitchen, knowing the time to clock out was just out of reach.

I stood at the front, absently wiping down one of the large wooden counters, the rag in my hand swiping in circles. The worn reflection in the glossy surface caught my gaze. Staring back at me was an average-looking 18-year-old black man, with an apparently non-average demeanour.

It wasn't anything physical, not exactly, but there was a weight to the way people noticed me, like I took up more space than my 5-foot-10-inch frame suggested. Maybe it was the contrast of my snow-white hair—an inherited condition called poliosis—against my dark skin, or maybe it was just the way I carried myself, as though the world could unravel at any moment, and I wouldn't even flinch.

Whatever it was, people noticed. Sometimes that was a good thing, and sometimes… not.

Tonight, though, I couldn't bring myself to care. The ache in my chest was too raw, too consuming. It had been there all day, growing heavier by the minute, ever since my girlfriend decided that I was "too available," and dumped me for it.

Too available. What the hell does that even mean?

I clenched the rag tighter, the smell of bleach cutting through the hazy fog of frustration. My white hair—a constant reminder of how different I always seemed—fell into my eyes, and I pushed it back, my fingers brushing the soft strands that had always made people stop and stare. Some of the regulars had made little jokes about it, asking if I dyed it on purpose. Others were more forward, asking me why someone so young would have snow-white hair. I'd long since stopped trying to explain it.

At least my body didn't betray me as easily. The countless hours of manual labor in this place had given me a physique that was, if nothing else, aesthetically pleasing—strong arms, lean build, broad shoulders. But even that didn't matter tonight.

"Taj!"

The voice snapped me out of my trance, and I turned instinctively, my hand still gripping the damp rag. That name. Taj. I flinched, though no one ever noticed. I'd been Taj for so long, I barely remembered what it felt like to hear my real name—Qarteus. Even now, the sound of it was strange in my head, almost foreign. No one in this place knew that name. They knew Taj, the guy who worked his shifts, smiled at customers, stayed late to help with cleanup when others ditched early. Taj, who was always available, dependable. Taj, who'd had a girlfriend this morning, and now… didn't.

I swallowed hard, feeling that familiar weight settle in my chest again. All day, the memory of that moment had played on repeat in my mind, like a bad movie reel I couldn't turn off.

"We need to talk," she had said earlier this morning, her arms crossed and her face drawn into that expression that immediately screamed this isn't going to be good.

Of course, I knew what was coming. I wasn't stupid. We'd been on the rocks for a while now, and the signs had been all there. But what really got me was the excuse she gave when she finally dropped the hammer.

"It's just that… you're too available, Taj," she had said, her voice faltering just slightly. "It's like, you're always… there. Always waiting for me to need you, and I can't do this anymore. I need space."

Space? She needed space? The words had knocked the wind out of me, and even now, they rattled around in my brain like a bad joke I couldn't let go of. Too available? I'd been dumped because I was too present? Who the hell gets dumped for being too dependable? I clenched the rag in my hand, squeezing until the bleach-soaked fabric dripped onto the counter.

"Taj!" The voice was louder this time, sharp, cutting through the low buzz of the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sal standing by the kitchen door, his apron crooked, his hair damp with sweat from the heat of the grills. He wasn't smiling, which meant one thing—trouble.

Sal only ever called me Taj when it was serious, being as we had been close friends for time and a bit, plus though he was quite the looker according to the ladies, he was also stuck in this rat race. The rest of the time, he'd throw out a "yo" or a "hey man" in passing, like everyone else. But when he said my name, that meant something was about to go sideways.

I dropped the rag and made my way over to him, the rubber soles of my shoes squeaking on the tile floor as I passed the busboys and waitstaff, who were all finishing up their end-of-shift chores. The smell of grease and soap hung heavy in the air, and the exhaust fans above the stoves whirred quietly, their work never quite done.

Sal leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his eyes darting from me to the hallway behind him. Something was off. I could see it in the way he kept shifting his weight, his mouth set in a tight line.

"Yeah?" I said, wiping my hands on my apron out of habit.

"Boss wants to see you," he muttered, jerking his head toward the back office. His tone was low, almost apologetic.

My stomach tightened.

The boss. Lisa.

I wasn't looking forward to that. Hell, I hadn't spoken to her since this morning when I accidentally walked in on her and one of the younger servers—a kid named Ricky—getting a little too close in the back storage room. I'd turned right around and walked out before they noticed me, but the damage was done. I knew what I saw, and from the way Lisa had been avoiding eye contact all day, I knew she did too.

Sal didn't say anything else, just gave me a quick nod and disappeared back into the kitchen. I stood there for a moment, staring down the dimly lit hallway that led to Lisa's office. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I could hear the soft clink of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher, the dull roar of the exhaust fan in the background, but everything else faded into this low hum of dread.

I took a deep breath and started walking, the narrow corridor feeling like it stretched on forever. The walls were lined with framed pictures of the restaurant's glory days—old black-and-white photos of past chefs, bartenders, and waitstaff grinning at the camera, all smiles and pride. I'd always liked those photos, something about the history, the legacy. But tonight, they felt like they were staring at me, judging. Like they knew something I didn't.

When I reached the door to Lisa's office, I hesitated. My hand hovered over the brass doorknob, slick with sweat. I could hear muffled voices inside—hers and someone else's. Ricky, probably. I steeled myself, took another deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in," came Lisa's voice, sharp and clipped.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, the room immediately engulfing me in the smell of old paper, leather, and faint traces of cigarette smoke—Lisa's signature scent. The office was small, cluttered with papers, binders, and the occasional half-empty coffee cup. A dim, yellowed lamp cast a warm glow over the room, making the shadows stretch long and deep.

Lisa sat behind her desk, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, the faint lines of worry etched into her otherwise sharp features. Ricky stood in the corner, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, his face flushed, like he'd just run a marathon. He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Taj," Lisa said, her voice too calm, too measured. "Close the door."

I did as she asked, my pulse racing as the door clicked shut behind me. The room felt smaller now, like the walls were closing in.

Lisa leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "We need to talk."