Title: Suds in the Shadows

Write about your first crush.

It was late—around ten. The restaurant was nearly empty, the last guests dragging out dessert as the boy—Jona—peeked around the kitchen door for the first time. He had just signed up at the temp agency, and this was his first shift: dishwashing. Not glamorous, but honest.

She was already there. Her name was Lieve. Her arms were soaked up to the elbows, her face tight and tired, like sleep was a memory from another life. She looked up when he walked in and gave a short nod.

“New guy?” she asked.

He nodded. “Jona.”

“Lieve,” she said. Then, quieter: “No joke.”

Silence settled in, filled only by the clinking of plates, the hum of the dishwasher, and the impatient ticking of the clock above the back door.

He grabbed a towel and started drying. No small talk. No questions. Until her hands began to tremble. A bowl hung in the air half a second too long before he took it from her. Their fingers touched. Something flickered in her eyes. Something screamed.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked away. Her face hardened again. “I don’t care,” she said, too quickly.

**

After closing time, she sat on the curb outside, her jacket still damp with soap. Jona sat next to her. She didn’t look at him, just pulled out a cigarette. He noticed her hands—bruises. Old scars. A hairline crack on her index finger that wouldn’t heal on its own.

He wanted to ask what was wrong. But knew she wouldn’t say.

So he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Will you?”

She shrugged. “Depends if my stepdad doesn’t lock me in again.”

He said nothing. She’d said it anyway. Between the mist of her breath and the lingering smell of bleach, something opened. A vulnerability. A scream disguised as silence.

“My mom says he has his ‘good sides.’ But I only see them when he’s asleep or high,” she said. “And even then… he doesn’t stop. Not really.”

“You need to get out.”

She scoffed. “To where? With you? You look like a knight without a horse. Or without drugs.”

He looked at her. She looked back.

“Your little sister, your brothers… they’d still be stuck there?” he asked.

“Yeah. And yeah, I know. But I can’t be a mom without something in my blood that’s stronger than fear. You get that?”

He nodded. He did. Too well, maybe. He knew what weed smelled like when it was the only warmth in a house. The quiet between two screams. The look in a child’s eyes who had grown up too fast because no one else would.

She looked at him like maybe he was a way out—but not the right one. Like he was too real. Too sober. Not addictive enough.

“You don’t seem like a good addiction,” she finally said.

“No,” he replied. “But I might be a good rescue. No cape. No powder.”

She smiled, tears edging into her eyes. And for a moment, she leaned against him—not like a lover, but like a shipwrecked soul.

“Maybe I should try it,” she whispered. “Trusting someone who sells nothing but dish soap.”

“And dish towels,” he added.

She laughed. For the first time, really.

The night smelled of soap, cigarettes, and hope.

The End.