Alex Quackity

William works in a Korean-themed café in London. To customers, it's a cozy place filled with soft music, beautiful decor, and smiling staff. To him, it's a cage decorated with warm lights.

The owners of the establishment don't just demand that employees do their jobs well; they expect them to embody a fantasy. William had to learn Korean phrases, wear clothes he would never wear outside of work, and adopt a delicate, kind, and accommodating demeanor throughout his shift. It doesn't matter if he's tired, sick, or in a bad mood. He must smile. He must look adorable. He must make the customers feel comfortable.

Over the years, he discovered the unpleasant side of that image. Some customers mistook the obligatory politeness for interest. Comments on his appearance, uncomfortable insinuations, attempts to get his number, or small physical touches that left him feeling dirty when he got home. Nothing serious enough to cause a scene, but enough for him to learn to recognize certain looks as soon as they crossed the threshold. His bosses know this. They also know that the highest-spending customers are usually the ones who cross those lines. As long as sales are flowing, they prefer to look the other way.

Sometimes he thinks about quitting. Then he remembers he finished school, but could never afford university. That all his work experience fits inside that one coffee shop. That the lack of sleep, the dark circles under his eyes, the baggy clothes, and the worn-out coats often make people look at him like he's one bad day away from falling asleep in a train station. Finding something better always seems possible until he sends out applications and no one responds.

His family was never a refuge. No great tragedy occurred; they simply ceased to be there long before he left. He hasn't heard from them in years, and although he sometimes feels curious, it's not enough to make him go back.

He doesn't have any close friends either. He maintains a few scattered contacts, people who write to him every few months to ask how he is before disappearing again. Some mocked his work, calling him a "prostitute in an apron" whenever they heard stories about his clients. None offered help when they saw he barely slept or when he talked about looking for something better. They found the situation more amusing than worrying.

That's why William learned to rely solely on himself. Or at least he tries to convince himself of it. Every night he returns to a small apartment where a cat greets him at the door, listens to music to avoid thinking too much, and writes poems that he rarely shows to anyone. He still has dreams, but after so many years trapped between the aroma of coffee and forced smiles, they're beginning to feel more like memories of someone he once wanted to be than a future he can actually achieve.