MIRA

Of course, it’s morning again!” I grumble as I sit up and turn off the alarm, which screams like it hates me. 6 a.m., same as every day.

The alarm is old. So old that I have to remove the battery before it can go off. Who knows how long Aunt May had it before me?

I swing my legs out of bed slowly, praying I don’t doze back off, but I wince when the cold floor hits my bare feet.

For some moments, like always, I just sit there in the dim room, head in my hands, elbows on my knees, wondering what I did in my previous life to warrant such punishment in this one.

No one should live like this, I think.

“Mira?” her tiny little voice drifts from the other room.

My spine straightens up as fast as possible. “It’s okay, nugget,” I called back, forcing brightness into my voice.

“Go back to sleep, hun, I’m just getting up to prepare for work.” I whisper

She gives out a sleepy murmur, and then silence.

I push to my feet, and the floorboards creak as I take each step away from my room to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Nora like I do every morning.

The house is as old as time itself and barely comfortable for me and my little sister, Nora. But it’s all we have anyway. Courtesy of Aunt May.

The fridge is empty. I jam it shut and search the top shelf for the “emergency meal,” as I call it: the last few slices of bread and an almost empty jar of peanut butter.

My eyes light up as I spread the butter on the bread slices. Nora has something to eat till I get home. By the time she pads in, her hair is messy but cute in those brown curls, I have her plate ready.

“Morning, bug.” I kiss the top of her head, rubbing her hair softly.

“Eat up before the bus comes,” I say, handing her an extra piece of sandwich and asking her to put it in her backpack for lunchtime.

My jaw aches from all the minutes I have to hold up a fake smile just so she can see me happy, even though I’m miles away from happiness.

My thoughts run through as I carefully pack up her hair in a nice bun. I want life to be better for us; little Nora deserves it.

I finally let out my tears under the shower, breathing slowly. It’s my morning routine. It keeps me sane and strong. Not all days are like this. Some are better. A little bit.

And the next day will be one of those better days. I’ll be off and go out to clean the stables of my landlord.

I’ll get paid immediately I’m done. Enough to carry me and Nora for the week. Till then, I’ll have to manage. It’s like repeating the same cycle over again. What could be worse?

Nora doesn’t complain; she never does. Sometimes I wonder if she’s the older sister. She’s so strong. I envy her. The way she smiles through it all.

I hope it’s not just to put on a good front for me. That act makes the knot in my chest tighter. I really hope she doesn’t think I’m horrible for not doing more.

I grab my jacket from the couch, my bag, and my bicycle keys that jingle against the bike lock. The bike itself sleeps outside. It always does. Its chain squeaky despite all the oil it drinks.

Sometimes I ride home through mud, and it’s better that way than wiping the floor every single day.

I swing a leg over it and start pedaling toward the diner. It’s a long ride. The wind bites at my cheeks, the morning breeze blows through my skin, and it makes my hair stand.

I pedal harder, wishing I could leave it all behind and take Nora. Far, far away from this cursed town that clings to me like a second skin.

But life doesn’t care about me, my thoughts, or my wishes.

The diner is already awake when I pull up, the neon sign buzzing but unreadable as some letters are out, the windows fogged with steam, and my boss Hank stands behind the counter with his arms crossed. He frowns at me for arriving at 6:55 as if I’m late.

“You’re on prep,” he barks as soon as I push through the counter door, “and wipe down the booths properly this time! I saw crumbs there last night.”

I bite back the sarcasm itching at the back of my throat. I have to wipe those booths properly, but arguing with Hank is like filling water into a basket, totally useless.

“Yes, Hank,” I grumble as I hang up my jacket, swapping it for the apron.

Jason slides up beside me some minutes later, all warm with his mischievous grin. His hair is bleached blue this week. I could’ve sworn it was blonde last week, and his eyebrows are thick as grass. Oh! how I envy that.

His eyeliner is nicely done, sharp enough to cut through stone. He hands me a mug of coffee like it’s the holy grail. It’s just like him. Dramatic.

“You like death babe, drink!” he utters with raised eyebrows, that look of concern again.

“Thanks,” my grateful ass snorts. “So how’s the kingdom?”

“Same old, same old.” He spreads his arms theatrically.

“Hank’s eternal misery sounds about right,” I hiss

The breakfast rush hits really fast. Families wrangling kids, men in work boots stomping in for coffee, and couples sliding into booths.

I move between them with plates balanced on my arm and my famous fake smile plastered on my face like a sticker.

But sometimes, the smile falls off. It’s supposed to. I’m human, with many feelings, and not some server bot.

Times like when a man at the counter leans too far over, breath stained with cigarette.

“Hey sweetie, how ’bout you serve me your number laced with this coffee, huh?”

I set the cup a little too hard, give him my best dead-eye stern look, and respond,

“How ’bout you drop tips instead of washed-up lines, huh?” I replied

“Hmmmm, feisty, I like her,” his buddies tease and laugh.

Still, my hands shake as I pick up my next tray. I hate how men think they can paw at me just because I wear a name tag and an apron.