Nathan moved through the diner, every step feeling like an uphill climb, every motion a small effort to keep himself together. The apron tied around his waist felt heavier than ever, a constant reminder of the weight he carried, of the house that hung in the balance and the debt he'd never been prepared to handle. The noises of the diner—laughter, the clinking of glasses, the hum of orders being called out—blurred around him, like a distant echo he couldn't quite reach. All he could hear, louder than anything else, was that number: €25,000. It loomed over him like a shadow, an impossible sum he couldn't imagine clearing, yet it pressed on him with each passing second.
He focused on the task in front of him, forcing his hands to stay steady as he carried a cup of coffee over to table nine, his gaze distant, his thoughts tangled. He set the cup down, barely glancing at the customer, already lost in his own mind again.
The man at the table looked up, frowning slightly. "Uh, I didn't order coffee," he said, his voice breaking into Nathan's thoughts like a cold splash of water.
Nathan blinked, reality snapping back into focus as he looked down, the color rushing to his cheeks. "Oh, I… I'm so sorry, sir," he mumbled, quickly glancing at the tables around him. His eyes landed on a woman at table eight, who was waving gently, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"I think that's mine," she said kindly, giving him a sympathetic look that only made the knot in his chest tighten.
He forced a quick, apologetic smile. "Right. Sorry about that," he said, moving to her table and setting the coffee down in front of her. "Here you go. Sorry for the mix-up."
"It's alright," she replied, her smile lingering, though her eyes carried a softness that hinted she could see through his strained expression.
Nathan managed a quick nod and murmured, "Enjoy your coffee," before retreating back to the counter, feeling the stares of the customers linger on his back. He could feel the shame curling in his stomach, his shoulders tightening as he tried to shake it off. Focus, he told himself. Get it together. Just make it through today.
He ducked behind the counter, busying himself with wiping down a few spots, trying to calm the trembling in his hands. Every cup he served, every plate he cleared—it was all a countdown, a way of moving forward, inching toward the money he needed, though he knew it would barely make a dent in the mountain before him.
"Nathan," a voice said softly from behind him. He looked up, startled, to see his boss, Mr. Grant, watching him with a look of quiet concern. "Could I have a word with you in the back?"
Nathan's stomach clenched, but he nodded, setting down the rag and following Mr. Grant to the quieter area near the kitchen entrance. Mr. Grant turned to face him, crossing his arms with a furrowed brow, his eyes studying Nathan carefully.
"You alright, son?" Mr. Grant asked, his voice low and filled with a genuine concern that only made the ache in Nathan's chest feel heavier.
Nathan dropped his gaze to the floor, a wave of weariness washing over him. For a second, he considered brushing it off, just shrugging and pushing forward. But the weight of everything pressed on him so hard that he couldn't hold it in. The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
"It's my dad," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hands twisting the edge of his apron. "He… he borrowed a lot of money. More than I realized. And now… now the house…" His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "They told us we'll lose it if we don't pay it back. It's… it's €25,000."
Mr. Grant exhaled slowly, nodding as he took in the words, his gaze never leaving Nathan's face. "That's a lot of weight to carry," he murmured, his voice laced with sympathy. "Look, Nathan, if you need to take some time to figure things out, you go ahead. The last thing I want is for you to be here when you're dealing with all that."
But Nathan shook his head quickly, his grip on the edge of the counter tightening. "Thank you, sir. Really. But… but I can't," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Every penny matters right now. I need this job, I need to keep going. Please, let me finish my shift. I don't have any other choice."
Mr. Grant looked at him for a long moment, his gaze softening, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "Alright, Nathan," he said finally, giving a small nod. "If that's what you need. But remember, if you need time, you just let me know. Don't push yourself too hard."
Nathan nodded, his voice catching slightly as he replied, "Yes, sir. Thank you." He gave a small, polite bow, then turned and made his way back to the counter, feeling Mr. Grant's gaze linger on him as he left. The kindness in his boss's eyes had been almost too much; it had pressed against the walls he'd built, almost cracked them open, but he'd held firm. He couldn't afford to let his guard down—not now, not with everything at stake.
Returning to his place behind the counter, Nathan took a steadying breath, forcing his focus back to the tasks at hand. Each step, each small act felt like he was putting one foot in front of the other, pushing himself forward, holding back the wave of dread that threatened to swallow him whole.
The world around him felt distant, blurred by the ache of worry that lay heavy in his chest. He moved mechanically, pouring coffee, clearing tables, ringing up orders, trying to stay grounded in the small, familiar rhythms of his job. With every customer he served, he counted each euro in his mind, calculating how much closer he might be to chipping away at that looming debt.
Yet, in quiet moments, when the flow of customers slowed, his mind drifted back to that impossible sum, to the house, to the people waiting to take it away if he couldn't find a way out. And every time, the fear pressed down on him again, a crushing weight that left him breathless.
But he pushed it all back down, forced himself to keep going, clinging to the hope—small and fragile though it wa
s—that somehow, he would make it through.