The wordHONEYis written on it in crayon. Big, uneven letters.
I stop for a moment, then smile.
That’s new.
At closing time, the bakery always has leftovers at the end of the day. Croissants that lost their shine, muffins that nobody chose, bagels that had gone cold. Most places probably just tossed them. But I never can.
The streets are damp as I carry a box in one arm with a sticky note on it, and in my messy handwriting, it reads:
Life is full of second chances.
I spot a homeless man sitting on the corner, hunched over.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He looks up, confused.
When I hand it over to him, he blinks for a few seconds like he doesn’t understand. Then he smiles, toothy and shy, like he hasn’t had much practice, and it feels funny on his face.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough, but his eyes soft. “Most people just walk by.”
I shrug, embarrassed by how much it means for him that someone even notices.
He chuckles, clutching the box like it’s a national treasure. I turn on my heel and start walking back toward the front when he calls out. “What’s your name?” I laugh and quickly yell back. “Ella!” He points his hand down at his chest. “Larry!”
“Nice to meet you, Larry,” I call back. “Have a good day.”
Some people save lives, others put out fires or teach small minds—I bake, and I do what I can, and I’m reminded that even flour, however messy, can make a difference.
I tell myself it’s enough.
It’s not, though.
Because life is supposed to be shared, just like food is supposed to be consumed. I shove the thought of loneliness back down and open the door to my condo.
Another day, another elevator ride.
Another possible opportunity.
Chapter 3
Ella
The next day, the bakery door nudges open, and in walks my favorite awkward regular. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, tall enough to play basketball but carrying himself like he wants to vanish into the floorboards. He shuffles to the counter, orders his usual chocolate chip muffin and hot chocolate, and then, like clockwork…sneaks a glance toward the corner table.
And there she is—the girl. Pretty, brunette, head bent over her homework, earbuds in. I’ve noticed it a dozen times before, how he looks at her like she’s the moon and he’s just some kid stuck on Earth.
I slide his muffin across the counter. “So,” I say, leaning in just enough to make him squirm. “You gonna say hi this time?”
His eyes widen like I’ve just suggested he rob a bank. “No. No way. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
“You could try… I don’t know, ‘hi.’ Works for most people.”
Color rises in his cheeks. “She’d never… I mean…look at her.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah, I did. And honestly? I think you’ll do just fine.”
He gives me a panicked half-smile, mumbles “Thanks,” and bolts out the door, leaving his hot chocolate steaming on the counter.
