I work the night shift at a 24-hour convenience store.
From 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., while the city sleeps, I’m under the fluorescent lights restocking shelves and watching over the quiet hours—welcoming the occasional lonely soul who walks through the doors.
And she’s the one I look forward to the most.
She started showing up about three months ago—always around midnight, always alone. She wore soft-colored dresses and let her long hair fall loosely over her shoulders. She’d quietly walk to the instant noodle section, pick out a cup of curry-flavored ramen, and wait in front of the microwave.
She never said much.
Just gave me a small smile at checkout and said, “Thank you.”
That smile—so gentle—it made my words fumble. A few times I nearly gave her the wrong change.
I’ve always been curious about her.
Why does she come alone this late every night?
Is she an office worker on the night shift? A novelist living nearby?
Does she go home after eating here, or is this store her temporary safe space?
I have so many questions, but none I can bring myself to ask.
One night, it was raining heavily when she walked in. Her hair was a bit wet, and she held her bag close with tired eyes. I finally worked up the courage to say, “Would you like a napkin?”
She paused for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you.”
That night, she didn’t buy noodles.
Just a warm bottle of tea, and she sat by the window, quietly sipping while staring at the rain.
I watched her from the counter, wanting so badly to walk over and start a conversation—but my legs wouldn’t move.
Sometimes, I think about writing her a note and sticking it on her favorite cup noodles:
“Hey, you’ve worked hard today. I hope this brings you a bit of warmth.”
But I’m afraid she might never come back if I did.
Then one early morning, she came in earlier than usual. While picking out noodles, she kept glancing my way. At checkout, she suddenly asked,
“Are you always on the night shift?”
I nodded nervously. “Yeah… I’m used to the rhythm at night.”
She smiled, her eyes sparkling.
“Then I guess I can start chatting with you more when I come buy noodles?”
That moment lit up the entire store.
She already knew, even though I had never said a word.
And the quiet crush I had tucked away in the deep hours of the night—suddenly had a chance to begin.
From that day on, the ramen smelled better.
The night shift didn’t feel so lonely.
I still sit behind the counter, but now I’m not just waiting for customers—
I’m waiting for her, for her curry noodles…
And that simple, heart-fluttering “hello.”
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