8. First job

Lena's POV

I woke to the sound of gulls crying overhead and the soft rhythm of waves hitting the pier. My body was heavy my muscles sore from the tension I hadn’t even realised I was holding. My eyes were puffy still red from crying most of the night, my throat raw, my chest tight. I stayed lying there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that this was real. That I had really come here. That I had really left him, left everything, and was standing on the edge of something completely unknown.

Getting out of bed felt like lifting a weight I couldn’t see but I forced myself to move. I had made it this far. I had left Los Angeles, flown across states, and landed in this small coastal town. I couldn’t let exhaustion or heartbreak hold me back any longer. Not today.

I had spent most of yesterday exploring, walking along the pier, and finding small apartments I could afford. On a whim, I had walked past a little café tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. A small sign read Seaside Brews, faded but welcoming. I had gone inside, asking if they needed help. The owner, a kind woman with soft gray hair and gentle eyes, had looked me over and smiled.

“You look like someone who can handle themselves,” she had said. “We could use an extra hand this morning. Can you start right away?”

I had hesitated, panic rising in my chest at the thought of starting something completely new, in a town where no one knew me. But something in her calm, steady gaze made me nod. “Yes. I, I can do that.”

“Good,” she had said simply. “Come in tomorrow, bright and early.”

And that’s how I got this job, how I had agreed to step into a world I barely knew, in a role I had no experience in, but desperately needed. I needed work. I needed a routine. I needed to prove to myself that I was capable of surviving on my own.

Now, on the second morning, I got dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, tying my hair back in a loose ponytail. I barely looked in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me was tired, broken, raw but it was me and that was enough.

The café smelled like fresh coffee and warm pastries the moment I stepped inside. The barista from yesterday smiled politely. “Morning, Lena. Ready for round two?”

I nodded forcing a smile even as my hands shook slightly. The owner waved at me from behind the counter. “Take it slow. You’ll get the hang of it.”

The day started rocky as I had expected. I dropped a cup spilling coffee across the counter. I fumbled with the espresso machine my fingers trembling as I measured milk and pressed buttons the wrong way. Each small mistake made my chest tighten made my stomach knot. I wanted to cry again. I wanted to run back to the safety of my apartment curl under my blankets, and forget everything.

But I didn’t I breathed in, deep and steady and tried again. I watched my coworkers, how they moved fluidly, how they laughed through mistakes, and I mimicked, slowly finding a rhythm. I listened to the orders carefully, repeated them in my mind, and soon I was able to keep up without dropping cups or making obvious errors.

One of the regulars, an older man who came in every morning for black coffee, smiled at me. “You’re doing fine, kid. Keep at it.”

I swallowed hard. The compliment made my chest ache, in a good way. For the first time in days, someone had seen me as capable. Not as someone broken. Not as someone to pity. Just as me. Lena. Competent, even if nervous.

Throughout the morning, I felt a strange mix of loneliness and determination. I missed the familiarity of my life, the routine I had shared with Ethan, the easy comfort of knowing I had a place in the world. But at the same time, each order I completed, each smile I returned, each task done right, reminded me that I could create something new here. That I could survive. That I could be strong.

During a quiet moment, I pulled my journal from my bag and scribbled furiously, trying to release some of the emotions still swirling inside me. I wrote about the exhaustion of leaving, the ache of missing him, the fear of failing. And I wrote about the spark that had been growing inside me yesterday, the tiny glimmer of independence that now seemed a little stronger.

By midday, I was moving through the café with more confidence. I remembered orders, kept the counter tidy, and even managed a small conversation with a nervous young customer who had spilled her juice. I reassured her with a smile, and she left laughing, clutching her drink. I felt a small surge of pride. I was helping. I was competent. I could be useful.

The owner came over during a lull, patting my shoulder gently. “You’re doing very well, Lena. Really.”

Her words made something warm bloom in my chest. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could survive in this town, in this life, without leaning on anyone else. Maybe I could find a way to stand on my own two feet again, even if the memories of Ethan haunted me.

The afternoon passed in a blur of orders, clinking cups, and conversations with customers. Each interaction was small, yet it mattered. It reminded me that life continued, that people moved on, and that maybe, I could too.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted, my feet aching, my hands sticky from coffee and sugar. But I also felt lighter. The small victories had stacked up, each one building a fragile sense of pride, a sense that I could do more than survive I could thrive.

Walking home, the sun low in the sky, the soft orange light reflecting off the water, I allowed myself a tiny smile. I had taken a step forward. I had faced my fears. I had survived my first day at the café, in a town where no one knew me, and in a life where everything familiar had been stripped away.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. I didn’t know how long the ache in my chest would linger, how long Ethan would haunt my thoughts. But I knew one thing: I had survived today. I had done my best, and that was enough.

Laying in bed that night, I wrote one final line in my journal: I am here. I am capable. I will find my strength again.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I believed it. And for the first time in this new life, I allowed myself to hope.