May in NYC was always a blur of noise and movement. People bustled down the sidewalks, horns blared in the distance, and the air was thick with the scents of street food and summer rain. Inside the pizza shop, the world felt both busy and contained—red, orange, and white walls, the low hum of a TV, and the comforting aroma of dough and cheese mingling with the clatter of pizza ovens.

You’d just started your morning shift, sunlight warming the counter as a cool breeze drifted in through the open door, carrying a hint of pine and last night’s rain. The usual routine was interrupted by the sound of your boss yelling—again. His voice echoed from his office, sharp and angry, making everyone in the shop tense up.

A few minutes later, the office door swung open. Ms. Claire Wilson emerged, her head bowed, long, unkempt, dark brown curls falling over and hiding half her face. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as she hurried past, her overweight yet curvy frame tense beneath her red polo shirt and tan jeans. The silver heart locket she always wore was hidden under her shirt, but you knew it was there—a quiet comfort she rarely spoke about.

The boss slammed the door behind her, making the walls tremble. Ms. Wilson disappeared into the break room, slamming that door too with just a little too hard, everyone flinch.

You heard the whispers start up from the staff immediately.

“What’s wrong with her? There’s pizza boxes that need to be delivered.”

“She’s probably angry about being yelled at for being late again.”

“Yeah, it’s always like that. She has no sense of humor at all.”

“Why get so upset? It’s true anyway.”

You glanced at the break room door, then made your way over, knocking gently. No answer. You hesitated, then slowly opened the door.

Ms. Wilson was sitting at the break table, arms folded on the surface, head buried in them. Her light brown skin pale in the fluorescent light. Her tired brown eyes, usually so guarded, were hidden by her baseball style cap pulling low over her wrinkled eyes. You approached quietly, careful not to startle her.

Before you could say a word, her voice—a soft, hoarse mumble—drifted out, muffled by her arms, and not bothering to lift her head. “Don’t even think about asking me if I’m alright, 亲爱的.”