Blog

After they listed my apartment, I had to leave. I departed after cleaning every corner. Next day, landlady called. I feared they found something broken. She began thanking me for cleaning. She abruptly asked, “How come you’re not bitter like the others?” I couldn’t respond immediately. I laughed nervously and added, “I don’t know, maybe I’ve just had good landlords.” She laughed. No, you haven’t. I recall the December boiler break. Plus the ceiling leak. You never complained.” “Well, it’s not your fault the ceiling started leaking in the middle of a storm,” I said, minimizing it. Actually, I was frustrated. What was the point of being rude? “You’re rare,” she whispered. Just wanted to say thanks. Really.” After the call, I sat on my new mattress and thought. The new apartment was darker, smaller, and costlier. This was my only option on short notice. I freelanced between jobs, attempting to recover from a breakup. My life was chaotic. But her comments stuck: “You’re not bitter like the others.” No feeling unusual. I continuously struggled to stay afloat. The next morning, I applied for gigs and checked on teaching jobs at a local café. My online English tutoring hours were inconsistent. I heard the café barista mention they were short-staffed and appeared anxious. Do they hire? I inquired. She thought I was joking. You’re serious? Yes, I smiled. I’ve worked in cafes. I’m friendly and quick to learn.” I applied immediately. Two days later, I steamed oat milk in an apron. Although minimum wage, it was something. The café seemed communal. Daily visitors shared coffee and jokes. One was 60-year-old Mr. Harrington. Always wore a cap and tipped generously. Polite, quiet. He forgot his umbrella on a wet Tuesday. I chased him out and gave it before the storm. He smiled like I gave him gold. “Young folks don’t usually notice much,” he added. “You differ.” Another word—different. Strange feeling. My efforts felt ordinary. I noticed something after a few weeks. Mr. Harrington lingered. He brought books and newspapers. He brought a small notepad one morning and remarked, “I’m trying to write again.” I handed him his customary black coffee and replied, “Nice.” “What kind of writing?” He murmured, “Memoir.” “Not sure if it matters, but…it’s something to do.” Of course it matters.” Almost astonished, he smiled. You think so? “Everyone’s story matters,” I added. From then on, he shared more daily. His wife died three years prior. His sole daughter lives abroad. Lifelong construction worker, never attended college, he always wanted to write. I started reading his writing when he asked. Give honest comments. His simplicity, clarity, and sincerity were impressive. Stories about his small town upbringing and hand-building dwellings. He wrote about his faults, loves, and hidden thoughts. One afternoon, he added, “You know, if you hadn’t chased me with that umbrella, I probably wouldn’t have come back.” “Glad I did then,” I said. I was working mornings at the café and tutoring evenings by then. Though fatigued, I had a routine. I was familiar with the neighborhood. Nia, the laundromat owner down the street, always gave me a free wash when I brought my laundry in. I did not accept but appreciated her. A man tried to break into Nia’s laundromat one night as I drove home from tutoring. Not thinking. He fled as I yelled. Nia ran out in her slippers, angry but grateful. “You could’ve been hurt,” she corrected. “I just didn’t want them to take your stuff,” I shrugged. She left me a tiny bag of fresh-baked pastries at the café the next day. The note added, “You watch out for people. We’ll watch out for you.” I felt belonging again. Even when I was struggling, everyone noticed. Not because I was loud or flamboyant. Just because I showed up. A month later, my phone buzzed on break. Another note from my old landlady. “Can you call me when you have time?” My curiosity pushed me to call her back. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said. Not at all. Everything okay? Answer: Yes and no. The flat sold. The new owners arrived yesterday. Buyer wants to rent it, they stated. They inquired if I knew any reliable past tenants.” A laugh. “And you considered me?” “You were my best tenant ever. On-time payments always. We never yelled, even when we had problems. They would like to offer it to you. The same rent. No agency fees.” I quieted. “I know you probably already settled elsewhere,” she said. “If you want it, they’ll hold it for a week.” Nearly cried. My existing house had moldy bathroom and little natural light. I took it out of desperation. Returning felt miraculous. “I’d love to,” I said. Next week, I moved back into my old flat. It was strange. Once familiar, now new. I bought an inexpensive used couch and plants. After my shifts, I sat by the kitchen window with tea in the afternoon sun. I found an envelope under my door one morning. It was nameless. The letter read: “Some things come back to you, when you least expect them. – Nia.” A grocery store gift card accompanied the note. I shook my head and smiled. My safety was monitored. As I had tried to protect them. A few months later, something more unexpected occurred. Harrington was published. A little local press covered his memoir. A small bookstore near the station hosted the launch, which he asked me to. He had me sit front. He began his speech by saying, “I owe this to someone who gave me their time when they didn’t have to. A young man who listened and said my story mattered. Probably doesn’t think he done much. But without him, I wouldn’t be here.” I blinked hard. Everyone applauded. He smiled at me directly. He gave me a copy with a handwritten note: “To the quiet force who reminded me I still had a voice.” I keep it book on my shelf. Things didn’t improve overnight. I still worked long nights and barely paid my bills. However, my weight lifted. Manager drew me aside one night while closing the café. “You know,” she remarked, “you’ve brought more people here than any ad campaign. They retrieve you.” I grinned. “I think they return for coffee.” Shaking her head. “No, they return for kindness.” She offered me an assistant manager position weeks later. Better hours, little rise. Something small, but it meant no more late-night tutoring. I took. Years passed. I shared a flat. Entering the neighborhood. Community writing classes became my side project after I saved enough. People of various ages submitted stories, poetry, and even notes to strangers.

- by TOPSTORYUSA - Leave a Comment

After they listed my apartment, I had to leave. I departed after cleaning every corner. Next day, landlady called. I feared they found something broken. She began thanking me for …

After they listed my apartment, I had to leave. I departed after cleaning every corner. Next day, landlady called. I feared they found something broken. She began thanking me for cleaning. She abruptly asked, “How come you’re not bitter like the others?” I couldn’t respond immediately. I laughed nervously and added, “I don’t know, maybe I’ve just had good landlords.” She laughed. No, you haven’t. I recall the December boiler break. Plus the ceiling leak. You never complained.” “Well, it’s not your fault the ceiling started leaking in the middle of a storm,” I said, minimizing it. Actually, I was frustrated. What was the point of being rude? “You’re rare,” she whispered. Just wanted to say thanks. Really.” After the call, I sat on my new mattress and thought. The new apartment was darker, smaller, and costlier. This was my only option on short notice. I freelanced between jobs, attempting to recover from a breakup. My life was chaotic. But her comments stuck: “You’re not bitter like the others.” No feeling unusual. I continuously struggled to stay afloat. The next morning, I applied for gigs and checked on teaching jobs at a local café. My online English tutoring hours were inconsistent. I heard the café barista mention they were short-staffed and appeared anxious. Do they hire? I inquired. She thought I was joking. You’re serious? Yes, I smiled. I’ve worked in cafes. I’m friendly and quick to learn.” I applied immediately. Two days later, I steamed oat milk in an apron. Although minimum wage, it was something. The café seemed communal. Daily visitors shared coffee and jokes. One was 60-year-old Mr. Harrington. Always wore a cap and tipped generously. Polite, quiet. He forgot his umbrella on a wet Tuesday. I chased him out and gave it before the storm. He smiled like I gave him gold. “Young folks don’t usually notice much,” he added. “You differ.” Another word—different. Strange feeling. My efforts felt ordinary. I noticed something after a few weeks. Mr. Harrington lingered. He brought books and newspapers. He brought a small notepad one morning and remarked, “I’m trying to write again.” I handed him his customary black coffee and replied, “Nice.” “What kind of writing?” He murmured, “Memoir.” “Not sure if it matters, but…it’s something to do.” Of course it matters.” Almost astonished, he smiled. You think so? “Everyone’s story matters,” I added. From then on, he shared more daily. His wife died three years prior. His sole daughter lives abroad. Lifelong construction worker, never attended college, he always wanted to write. I started reading his writing when he asked. Give honest comments. His simplicity, clarity, and sincerity were impressive. Stories about his small town upbringing and hand-building dwellings. He wrote about his faults, loves, and hidden thoughts. One afternoon, he added, “You know, if you hadn’t chased me with that umbrella, I probably wouldn’t have come back.” “Glad I did then,” I said. I was working mornings at the café and tutoring evenings by then. Though fatigued, I had a routine. I was familiar with the neighborhood. Nia, the laundromat owner down the street, always gave me a free wash when I brought my laundry in. I did not accept but appreciated her. A man tried to break into Nia’s laundromat one night as I drove home from tutoring. Not thinking. He fled as I yelled. Nia ran out in her slippers, angry but grateful. “You could’ve been hurt,” she corrected. “I just didn’t want them to take your stuff,” I shrugged. She left me a tiny bag of fresh-baked pastries at the café the next day. The note added, “You watch out for people. We’ll watch out for you.” I felt belonging again. Even when I was struggling, everyone noticed. Not because I was loud or flamboyant. Just because I showed up. A month later, my phone buzzed on break. Another note from my old landlady. “Can you call me when you have time?” My curiosity pushed me to call her back. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said. Not at all. Everything okay? Answer: Yes and no. The flat sold. The new owners arrived yesterday. Buyer wants to rent it, they stated. They inquired if I knew any reliable past tenants.” A laugh. “And you considered me?” “You were my best tenant ever. On-time payments always. We never yelled, even when we had problems. They would like to offer it to you. The same rent. No agency fees.” I quieted. “I know you probably already settled elsewhere,” she said. “If you want it, they’ll hold it for a week.” Nearly cried. My existing house had moldy bathroom and little natural light. I took it out of desperation. Returning felt miraculous. “I’d love to,” I said. Next week, I moved back into my old flat. It was strange. Once familiar, now new. I bought an inexpensive used couch and plants. After my shifts, I sat by the kitchen window with tea in the afternoon sun. I found an envelope under my door one morning. It was nameless. The letter read: “Some things come back to you, when you least expect them. – Nia.” A grocery store gift card accompanied the note. I shook my head and smiled. My safety was monitored. As I had tried to protect them. A few months later, something more unexpected occurred. Harrington was published. A little local press covered his memoir. A small bookstore near the station hosted the launch, which he asked me to. He had me sit front. He began his speech by saying, “I owe this to someone who gave me their time when they didn’t have to. A young man who listened and said my story mattered. Probably doesn’t think he done much. But without him, I wouldn’t be here.” I blinked hard. Everyone applauded. He smiled at me directly. He gave me a copy with a handwritten note: “To the quiet force who reminded me I still had a voice.” I keep it book on my shelf. Things didn’t improve overnight. I still worked long nights and barely paid my bills. However, my weight lifted. Manager drew me aside one night while closing the café. “You know,” she remarked, “you’ve brought more people here than any ad campaign. They retrieve you.” I grinned. “I think they return for coffee.” Shaking her head. “No, they return for kindness.” She offered me an assistant manager position weeks later. Better hours, little rise. Something small, but it meant no more late-night tutoring. I took. Years passed. I shared a flat. Entering the neighborhood. Community writing classes became my side project after I saved enough. People of various ages submitted stories, poetry, and even notes to strangers. Read More

My perfect life? A beautiful lie. The past I buried just showed up, threatening to expose everything and shatter the world I built.

- by TOPSTORYUSA - Leave a Comment

“I’m 49 and just got out of a 20-year marriage. The relationship had been flatlined for a while… we were both done. After the divorce, I started dating someone new. …

My perfect life? A beautiful lie. The past I buried just showed up, threatening to expose everything and shatter the world I built. Read More