One Life, Many Pieces

Chapter 2. Moments Between Strangers

I sit on my bed, freshly showered and dressed in a collared shirt that’s seen better days but looks almost professional after a quick ironing. My reflection in the cracked mirror across the room stares back, nervous yet determined. Today’s the day. My first real interview for a part-time job—the kind that could cover rent, maybe even food beyond instant noodles. I glance at my resume, a thin sheet that somehow feels lighter than it should.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and my stomach sinks. I know that knock. It’s my landlord, Mr. Ortega—a small, wiry man with a perpetual frown, as if smiling would cost him more than the rent he’s here to collect.

I open the door, managing a polite nod. He’s holding a clipboard, tapping his pen impatiently.

“Ryan,” he says, his voice low and clipped, “you’re two weeks overdue.”

“I know, I know,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’ve got an interview today. Just... give me a little more time. If I get the job, I’ll be able to cover it.”

He squints at me, sceptical. “Interviews don’t pay the rent, Ryan.”

I nod, forcing a steady breath. “Just one more week. Please.”

He holds my gaze for a moment, then sighs. “Alright. But after that…” He trails off, leaving the threat hanging in the air as he walks back down the hallway.

I close the door, the pressure bearing down. Rent. Interview. I can’t mess this up.

I close my apartment door, the lingering tension from my conversation with the landlord still pressing on me. I try to shake it off, shifting my focus to the interview ahead. As I reach for my bicycle by the hallway wall, I notice her—the neighbor I’d heard arguing this morning.

She’s standing at her door, fumbling with her keys, her face tired but softened in the afternoon light. Her gaze drifts over and catches on me, and there’s a brief pause before she offers a small, hesitant smile.

“Hey,” she says, her voice softer than I expected. “Sorry if we woke you up this morning. Thin walls, I guess.”

“Yeah,” I manage, returning her smile awkwardly. “It’s… alright. Happens.”

She studies me, head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look like you’re heading somewhere important. Interview?”

I nod, a bit surprised. “Yeah, actually. First one in a while.”

She gives an encouraging nod. “Hope it goes well. You’ll be great.” Her words are simple but carry an unexpected warmth, and I feel my nerves ease slightly.

“Thanks. Just hoping they don’t see through the act,” I joke, a little too earnestly, but she laughs.

“Trust me, we’re all just trying to keep it together here,” she says, a hint of something wistful in her expression. The city feels strangely quiet around us in that moment, like we’re both aware of some invisible weight we’re carrying.

“Well, good luck,” she adds, stepping back.

“Thanks. And, uh… I hope things get better.” It’s all I can offer, and she just nods, a faint smile playing on her lips.

I grip my bike handles and head out, her words echoing in my mind as I steer into the city streets, feeling slightly less alone in this chaotic place.

The cafe is buzzing with an easy rhythm, the scent of espresso and vanilla mingling in the air as I step inside. I find an empty table by the window, settle in, and run my hands over the worn wood surface, grounding myself. Outside, New York rushes past, indifferent to my nerves.

But my mind drifts back to the exchange with my neighbor in the hallway. I realize I don’t know her name. She doesn’t know mine either. We stood there, sharing a moment that was both intimate and strangely anonymous. It feels incomplete, like a story paused mid-sentence.

I wonder if she’s still dealing with whatever was behind that door—the argument, or something heavier that was almost visible in her eyes. There was a tension there, a glimpse into someone else’s chaos. Should I have said something more? Maybe in another world, I would’ve asked her name, taken a step closer instead of letting her retreat into her own silence.

The thought lingers, an ache I can’t quite place.

A soft clearing of the throat snaps me back. My interviewer, a tall man with glasses, stands by the table with a polite smile. I straighten up, pushing the moment with my neighbor out of my mind. Time to focus on what’s right in front of me. I offer a handshake, trying to ignore the slight tremor in my grip.

I force a smile as I sit across from my interviewer, who introduces himself as Mark. He looks polished and confident, the kind of guy who probably breezed through college. I, on the other hand, feel like an imposter in my borrowed collared shirt, trying to appear calm while my heart races.

“So, Ryan Blake, tell me about a challenge you’ve faced,” Mark says, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze penetrating.

My mind goes blank. I swallow hard, grappling with the pressure. My thoughts dart back to my chaotic morning, the fleeting interaction with my neighbor. “Um, well,” I begin, my voice faltering, “I guess I had to balance my coursework with… uh, life.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his expression revealing just enough skepticism. “Life, huh? Care to elaborate?”

Heat creeps up my neck. It’s like he can see through my facade, my struggles laid bare. I fidget with the sleeve of my shirt, the fabric feeling suffocating. “It’s just, you know, managing time and priorities,” I mumble, desperate to convey something substantial.

“Right,” he replies, tapping his pen against the table, the sound echoing like a countdown. “But specifics help. Can you provide an example?”

Each question feels like a small earthquake, shaking my confidence. I wonder if I should mention my bike rides through the city, the solace they bring, or my dream of being a writer. But I hesitate, stuck in my own head. The tension thickens, leaving me feeling like I’m drowning in a sea of expectations.

As I search for an answer, I notice Mark’s eyes flicker, a hint of impatience creeping in. I take a deep breath, trying to clear the storm in my mind. If only I could connect my reality with my words, show him the depth beyond my surface.

Mark leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, the tension in the air palpable. “So, Ryan, have you had any previous work experience?”

I swallow hard, the words caught in my throat. “Uh, no, not really,” I manage, heat flooding my cheeks. “I’ve focused on my studies mostly.”

His gaze narrows slightly. “And you’re a full-time student, correct?”

“Yes, I just started my first year in literature.” The words come out almost too quickly, an attempt to fill the silence.

He nods, scribbling something on his notepad. “And what do you think about working in a café environment?”

The question stirs a mix of excitement and apprehension. “I think it’s a great way to meet people,” I say, the thought of engaging with customers both thrilling and daunting. “I mean, it’s lively, right? You get to be part of the hustle.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Have you ever been a regular at a café? What do you look for in one?”

The question catches me off guard. I think back to the local café I frequented, the aroma of fresh coffee mingling with the sound of soft chatter. “I appreciate a cozy atmosphere,” I reply slowly, “somewhere I can read or write without feeling rushed.”

Mark nods thoughtfully, the weight of my answer hanging in the air. “You do realize that a lot of our customers will be students just like you, right?”

I nod, the reality of it all settling in. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

As he leans back, I catch a glimpse of uncertainty flickering across his face, and I wonder if he’s reconsidering my suitability for the position. The tension lingers, and I can’t help but feel like I’m teetering on the edge of judgment, trying to prove myself in a world that feels overwhelmingly vast.