The day had begun in the most ordinary way imaginable—too ordinary, in fact, for Luke to suspect that by noon he'd be standing on the sidewalk being verbally pummeled by his seventy-year-old boss.
Luke had arrived at Delights Superstore ten minutes early, as he always did, clutching a lukewarm coffee and a sliver of hope that the day wouldn't be as exhausting as the last.
The bags under his eyes weren't just the result of poor sleep—they were the souvenirs of months spent juggling too many responsibilities and too little recognition.
Inside the store, Mr. Hargraves—yes, the same elderly man now screaming in the street—was already stomping around with the intensity of a general preparing for war. He'd run Delights Superstore for forty years and treated every employee as though they too had been there for four decades, whether they'd been there four years or four weeks.
The first spark came when Luke accidentally dropped a box of canned tomatoes while stocking the lower shelves. It wasn't a big deal—nothing spilled, nothing broke. But the metallic crash drew Mr. Hargraves like a moth to disaster.
"What was that? Luke! How many times have I told you—carelessness costs money!"
Luke swallowed the retort forming in his throat. "Sorry, sir. It slipped. I'll fix it."
But it didn't end there.
Next came the issue with the morning shipment. The delivery truck had been delayed—delayed, not canceled—and the supplier had already taken responsibility. But Mr. Hargraves saw only one culprit: Luke, whom he'd placed in charge of receiving earlier that month.
"Unacceptable! In my day, people took pride in showing up on time—trucks included!"
Luke wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply nodded, which turned out to be the wrong thing to do.
But the true breaking point happened just before noon. A customer—an impatient woman with an overflowing basket—had berated Luke for not knowing the precise restock time of her favorite jam.
Luke remained calm, apologized, even checked the inventory system for her. She left unhappy, and unfortunately for him, she found Mr. Hargraves on her way out.
By the time she finished complaining, Mr. Hargraves' face had turned a shade of red Luke had never seen before—somewhere between a fire hydrant and an erupting volcano.
"Luke! My office. Now."
And that was how Luke ended up on the street minutes later, listening to an elderly man holler as though he were trying to wake the entire city from a century-long slumber.
The irony, of course, was that Luke hadn't really done anything wrong.
Not today. Not yesterday. He was simply the nearest target for a man who had built his identity around control—and who couldn't stand that the world was slipping beyond it.
Luke stood there, rubbing his face, wondering what came next.
Maybe freedom.
Maybe disaster.
Maybe something better than Delights Superstore could ever offer.
But one thing was certain:
This was never about a box of tomatoes.
Luke watched Mr. Hargraves turn away, still muttering curses to the pavement as he stormed back into the store.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him—like the store itself was relieved to have a moment of silence.
For a few seconds, Luke just stood there, hands hanging loosely at his sides, feeling the ghost of the shouting still vibrating in his ears. The street was chilly at noon, and a faint breeze tugged at the hem of his uniform shirt—his former uniform shirt, he reminded himself.
He exhaled, long and shaky.
"Well," he muttered, "I guess that's that."
People passing by gave him sideways glances—some curious, some sympathetic, some simply amused.
Luke couldn't blame them. If he'd heard an elderly man screaming "YOU ARE FIRED!" at top volume, he probably would've watched too.
He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he felt a knot of tension resting at the base of his neck. The kind that comes from months of swallowing things you want to say, smoothing the edges of yourself to fit someone else's rules.
Maybe he should be panicking. Maybe he should be freaking out about rent, about groceries, about the job market. But for the first time in a long time, his mind wasn't racing—it was quiet. Strange. Peaceful, even.
What now?
He took a step away from the store. Then another. And another, until Delights Superstore was no longer in his peripheral vision. He didn't want to look at it anymore.
His phone buzzed.
A notification from the employee group chat:
"What happened???"
"Dude, Mr. H lost it."
"You good?"
Luke stared at the messages for a moment.
He typed back:
"Yeah. I'm done. Finally."
He shoved the phone into his pocket before the inevitable flood of replies came through.
Down the block, a small park sat across from the bakery he used to treat himself to once a week—back when he still believed little rewards could outbalance daily misery. He walked toward it without really thinking.
When he reached the park bench, he sat down and leaned back, letting the quiet hum of traffic settle around him. Pigeons strutted by with the confidence of creatures who had never worked a day in their lives.
Luke envied them.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe losing his job wasn't the universe collapsing—it was the ground clearing.
For the first time since his twenties began slipping through his fingers, Luke wondered:
If I could do anything, what would I actually want to do?
Not what pays the rent.
Not what keeps the peace.
Not what keeps bosses like Mr. Hargraves satisfied.
What he wanted.
The thought was terrifying.
And strangely exciting.
His eyes opened again, and for the first time all day, Luke allowed himself a small, uneven smile.
"Okay," he whispered to no one.
"Let's figure this out."
On second thought, Luke decided there was no point trying to figure out his life mere minutes after being fired.
His head was still ringing, his mood a mess. Instead, he turned around and went home, choosing to crash for the rest of the day.
Tomorrow—yeah, tomorrow—he'd start fresh and make proper plans.