No one sees you
before open,
slouched on a crate in the stockroom,
sipping burnt coffee like it’s a ritual
to summon the will.

The store wakes with a hum—
coolers groan,
lights flicker to life,
music loops the same pop song
like a joke only the building gets.

Your name tag feels like a brand.
Smile, nod, repeat.
Every “Let me check in the back”
buys you thirty seconds of silence—
your sanctuary behind swinging doors,
where no one’s pretending.

You learn people.
How need hides behind anger,
how “just looking”
means “don’t talk to me,”
how someone crying in aisle five
won’t explain—
but you sweep around them,
quiet,
human.

You stock shelves like nothing matters,
but it does.
Your hands ache from lifting
things no one notices
until they’re not there.
Your legs go numb standing still.
You dream of exits,
but show up anyway.

Some nights you close alone,
lock the door,
and exhale
like you’ve been holding your breath for hours.

Outside,
the world keeps spinning—
fast,
cold,
unaware
of what it costs to keep
everything running.