Urban System in America

Meanwhile, Rex sat comfortably in the corner booth of the café, phone in hand, while waiting for Aren to show up. A faint smile tugging at his lips as he typed away. The chat screen lit up with Monica's name, and their conversation was a dance of teasing and affection, filled with emojis, playful remarks, and little reassurances that belonged only to them. Every buzz of her reply made his chest feel lighter, the noise of the café fading behind the glow of their private world.

The waiter brought his order, and the scent immediately filled the air around him… grease, cheese, and toasted bread, comfort food at its finest. A towering cheeseburger dripped with melted cheddar, golden fries steamed in a neat pile, the cold soda fizzed as he cracked it open and took a long sip, letting the sweetness wash away the dry heat of the day.

And of course, a bowl of salad sat nearby, as he was on diet recently. He took his time, alternating between bites of his burger and checking his phone, tapping out a reply with one hand while licking sauce from the other.

Every so often, his gaze flicked toward the door. Still no Aren. He leaned back, chewing slowly, letting his eyes drift to the café window where sunlight poured in over bustling LA streets. People came and went in neat suits, designer sunglasses perched on their noses, cars honking outside. Inside, the café buzzed with chatter, the clink of cutlery, and the sharp hiss of the espresso machine.

As he ate, he kept glancing at his phone between bites, thumbs moving quickly to respond to Monica's messages. Her texts had a way of pulling him in, warming him more than the food ever could. The café around him buzzed with the clatter of cups, the hum of quiet conversations. Yet Rex was in his own little bubble, savoring the food, the company of her words, and the steady rhythm of waiting for Aren to arrive.

…

Outside, a taxi suddenly stopped in front of the cafe. In the taxi was none other than Aren. He leaned forward, squinting through the windshield to double-check the sign on the storefront. He compared it with the address Rex had sent him for the second time, just to be sure.

His stomach twisted… not from hunger this time, but from the sting of what came next. With a bleeding heart, he dug into his wallet and pulled out his last crumpled twenty-dollar bills. The edges were soft, torn in places, like they'd been through hell just like him. He smoothed them against his thigh, as if that would magically make them look less pitiful, and handed them over to the driver. Watching the bills leave his hand felt like someone cutting open his veins. Now he was officially poorer than the random tramp on the street.

He handed the crumpled notes over, already stepping out of the taxi when the driver's flat voice stopped him.

"It's less."

Aren froze, heat rushing to his face. He turned back, fumbling in his pockets as if by some miracle he might've overlooked a hidden bill. His fingers scraped against lint, an old bus ticket, and finally, a single copper penny that glinted weakly in his palm. He stared at it, then dug into the other pocket, desperate, almost patting himself down like a thief caught in the act. Nothing.

The driver watched him through the rearview mirror, eyes tired, uninterested. With a sigh, he muttered, "Forget it. Keep the change."

Before Aren could even respond, the cab rolled forward, the driver already scanning the sidewalk for his next ride. This one was a dud, not worth his time.

Aren stood there for a moment, penny still in his hand, forcing a bitter smile. It wasn't funny, but somehow the irony of being so broke that even a cabbie gave up on him cut deeper than anything else. He slipped the penny back into his pocket and looked towards the cafe.

For a second, he just stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the café entrance. People in clean clothes and shiny shoes strolled past him without sparing a glance, the faint chatter of conversations and clinking of dishes drifting out from the glass doors. He swallowed hard and rubbed at his messy hair, trying to tame it. It didn't help.

His reflection in the café window told the truth: a guy with dark panda eyes that screamed he hadn't slept last night, faint stubble scratching his jaw, and an old, washed-up shirt paired with jeans that had holes in them. Not the trendy, ripped-jean look people paid extra for, but the kind born out of years of wear and hand-me-down misery. Still, if you squinted hard enough, maybe it could pass as "vintage."

He tugged at his collar, patted down his shirt, even tried brushing invisible dust from his jeans. It didn't change much. He still looked like someone the staff would hesitate to serve.

Drawing in a long breath, he finally pushed himself forward. A soft chime announced his arrival, and instantly, the warm chatter inside seemed to press down on him. The place smelled of roasted coffee beans, butter, and sugar, scents that twisted the knife in his empty stomach. The staff behind the counter glanced up briefly, polite smiles flickering across their faces before they went back to their work. To anyone else, it would've meant nothing. To Aren, each glance felt like a spotlight.

He told himself they weren't staring, that no one cared, but it didn't stop the gnawing voice in his head. When one was down, it didn't take much… every random look turned into a judgment, every whisper sounded like mockery, every burst of laughter felt like it was aimed at him. He imagined people thinking, Look at his clothes. Look at his face. He doesn't belong here.

He hunched a little, shoving his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor tiles as he walked past tables where couples shared lattes and friends laughed over plates of food. His throat tightened, and his chest felt heavy. He was an intruder in their world.

(End of Chapter)