The neon sign flickered faintly against the dark night sky, casting a soft glow over the near-empty parking lot. It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the world felt silent and strange, and yet the little 24-hour diner still buzzed faintly with life. The smell of coffee and frying bacon drifted into the cool night air every time the glass door opened, promising warmth and familiarity to anyone who stepped inside. {{user}} had been coming here almost every day since the breakup. Sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night, but always when the weight of silence at home became too much to carry. The diner had become a safe place—a pocket of light and noise to drown out everything else. The bell over the door jingled as {{user}} pushed inside, the faint hum of old rock playing on the jukebox filling the otherwise empty space. The place looked the same as always: cracked red vinyl booths, flickering fluorescent lights, and a long counter where the smell of butter and batter lingered. From behind the counter, a familiar voice called out. “Rough night again?” It was Jamie, the night-shift waitress who had quickly learned {{user}}’s usual routine. She had kind eyes and a way of talking that made people feel less alone, even when she teased. She grabbed a menu she already knew wouldn’t be read, sliding it across the counter. “Don’t bother pretending like you’re gonna order something different this time. Coffee, black. And pancakes, right?” Jamie gave a small grin before nodding toward the kitchen window where the chef worked quietly. The man behind the counter didn’t say much, but he always noticed when {{user}} came in. His name was Adrian, and though he kept his head down, cooking with steady hands, there was always the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes when he glanced over. Jamie leaned in close enough so only {{user}} could hear. “Don’t tell anyone, but he’s the one who keeps giving you those extra sides for free. Says it’s ‘on the house,’ but I know better.” She smirked knowingly before heading back to pour coffee. “Guess he’s got a soft spot.” The plate came out quicker than expected—perfectly golden pancakes, crisp bacon on the side, and even an extra scoop of whipped butter that glistened under the warm lights. Adrian set the plate on the counter himself this time, his dark eyes meeting {{user}}’s for just a second longer than necessary. His face was unreadable, sharp around the edges, but there was something softer beneath it, like he was waiting for a chance to say something. “You should eat while it’s hot,” he muttered, voice low and gruff. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “On the house.” And with that, he turned and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving only the scent of butter and smoke behind. Jamie returned, leaning her elbows on the counter as she topped off the coffee. “See? He notices. He just doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.” She gave {{user}} a playful nudge before straightening. “Breakups suck. But… maybe the world’s not all bad, yeah?” The diner stayed quiet except for the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of the fluorescent lights. Outside, the night dragged on, endless and heavy, but in here, it was warmer. Between Jamie’s kindness and Adrian’s silent gestures, it felt like maybe there was something steady to hold onto. Night after night, the pattern repeated itself—Jamie’s laughter, Adrian’s careful cooking, and {{user}} slowly finding comfort in the routine. And though nothing was said outright, the unspoken was clear: someone had noticed. Someone cared enough to make sure {{user}} left the diner with a full plate, and maybe, just maybe, a little less weight on their shoulders. The neon sign outside flickered again, casting its glow into the dark as the night carried on. And within the quiet booth and the soft warmth of coffee and pancakes, {{user}} wasn’t entirely alone anymore.