Not in the cartoon-cat, lasagna-hating kind of way. No. I mean the kind of hate that settles in your bones, deep and cold, when you wake up in a one-room student apartment in Frankfurt am Main that smells like instant noodles, damp socks, and desperation. My desperation.
6:30 a.m. My phone buzzed like a dying fly next to my pillow. I groaned. Not because I was tired—okay, I was—but mostly because I knew exactly what kind of day it was going to be. Cold, gray, unforgiving. And loud. Someone was already yelling outside. Standard Frankfurt soundtrack.
"Get up, Max," I muttered to myself, dragging one leg out from under the blanket like it weighed thirty kilos. "You're poor. You're broke. You're in debt. And if you miss work again, you're also unemployed."
The floor was freezing. I hopped like an idiot across the cracked linoleum to the sink, trying not to step on the pile of laundry I hadn't dealt with in… weeks. Maybe a month? Time blurred when your bank account hovered in the double digits and your student loans laughed at you from the void.
The water was ice cold, of course. Our building hadn't had consistent warm water since last winter. I splashed my face and winced, blinking myself awake in the mirror above the sink. The mirror had a crack through it, like it couldn't bear to look at me either.
Splash. Cold water. Face. Brush teeth. Slap on deodorant. Try not to cry. Done.
I pulled on a hoodie that smelled slightly less terrible than the others and a pair of jeans that had seen better years. My reflection stared back at me: pale white skin, dark shadows under my eyes, and messy red hair that refused to behave. My green eyes looked dull, tired. Undernourished face. Honestly, I looked like I'd been surviving on vending machine food and broken dreams—and I had.
Still, my butt looked decent in these jeans. Small blessings.
I shoved the last slice of bread into my mouth as I locked the door behind me, chewing while jogging down the stairs two at a time. The elevator hadn't worked since... ever.
The train ride to the café was mercifully uneventful. No delays. No weirdos licking the poles. I even got a seat, which felt like winning the lottery. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, letting the rhythm of the train thump against my skull like a lullaby for the hopelessly overworked.
When I finally pushed through the back door of the coffee shop, I actually exhaled in relief. The smell of roasted beans and old floor cleaner hit me like a memory I hadn't asked for.
"You're early," said Lena, the manager, with one eyebrow raised. She always looked like she hated being alive.
"Don't act so shocked," I replied, throwing my bag into the locker.
"You're lucky. One more late shift and you were out."
"I know. Believe me, I know."
I really couldn't afford to lose this job. After my parents died in that car crash five years ago, I'd inherited exactly two things: crippling grief and a mountain of university debt. The 200.000€ loan I'd taken on to cover tuition, housing, and all the other invisible costs of pretending to have a future—it wasn't going anywhere.
Three jobs, no degree yet, and barely enough hours in the day to hold it all together. Welcome to my glamorous life.
I changed into the café uniform—a slightly oversized button-up shirt and a black apron that smelled like burnt espresso and sour milk. As I buttoned the shirt, I caught Nicklas staring.
Nicklas. Quiet guy. Law major. Stares too much. Says too little. Moves like a ghost in sneakers.
"If you wanted to ask me out," I said without looking up, "you could just do it. I wouldn't go home with you, but I never say no to free food."
He turned red like a tomato in a microwave. "S-sorry. I didn't—I wasn't—"
"Relax," I said, tying the apron around my waist. "You're not my type. But you're harmless."
He scurried off like a kicked puppy, and I shook my head. How the hell did he think he'd survive as a lawyer if he couldn't handle eye contact?
The morning shift was the usual circus. A couple of assholes who thought yelling made them right. A Karen—no, not her name, just her whole personality—who wanted her latte with oat milk, extra hot, one pump vanilla, stirred counter-clockwise by a unicorn. Then there was the businessman who kept calling me "sweetheart" like it was a compliment and not a microaggression.
I smiled through all of it. Barista Max: queen of fake cheer. Somehow, I even managed to get Karen to leave happy. That was my superpower. Smiling while dying inside.
By the time the shift ended, my feet were throbbing and my hands smelled like milk foam. I practically ran out the door, tossing my apron in the bin like it was on fire.
The university campus was crawling with students. Everyone moving with that particular brand of exhausted energy only caffeine and existential dread can create. I weaved through the crowds, clutching my backpack like it might float away and leave me behind.
As I passed the bulletin board near the comp-sci building, a bright yellow poster caught my eye:
"Special Lecture: World Premiere - Prof. Schmitt's Revolutionary CPU Architecture. This Thursday."
Holy crap.
I pulled out my phone—screen cracked, battery permanently below 20%—and marked the date. Thursday. Today was Monday. I had three days to rearrange my life so I could attend.
Theoretical Informatics was my thing. My passion. If I could afford to be part of any research group here, I would. But rent and food and debt didn't care about passion.
Classes were the usual mix of stimulating and soul-crushing. I sat in the front, answered questions, soaked up every word. The professors liked me. Called me brilliant, even. But when the signup sheet for research groups went around, I never put my name down. Not because I didn't want to—but because I couldn't afford to skip any of my three jobs.
No time for unpaid glory. Not when the rent was due.
Between lectures, I crammed in some self-study. My laptop was so old it screamed when I opened Chrome, but I made do. Notes, formulas, email reminders—all blurred together in a haze of caffeine and panic.
By 17:00, I was back in my apartment, cramming down instant noodles while flipping through my homework. The noodles were extra soggy today. I think the hot plate is dying. One eye on the clock.
Work again.
This time, I changed into something a little more… profitable. A decent blouse, the trendy jeans Claudia recommended—tight enough to make my butt look like it paid taxes—and a pair of worn sneakers that had seen one too many mosh pits. I slapped on a little eyeliner—not for beauty, but for tips.
Club shift. Bar. Noise. Tips. Survival.
The club in Frankfurt wasn't classy, but it wasn't a total dive either. Just enough neon to make your eyes hurt, and music loud enough to drown out your thoughts. The air smelled like sweat, cheap perfume, and regret.
Claudia, my coworker and self-declared fashion guru, smirked when she saw me. "Told you those jeans were an investment."
She wasn't wrong. That night, I made more in tips than I had all of last week. Apparently, drunk dudes were happy to throw money at a girl who looked like she might step on them.
Still made my skin crawl.
Some guy spilled his cocktail on the bar and winked at me while I cleaned it up. Another asked if he could write his number on my arm. Claudia handled the worst of them like a pro. I tried to follow her lead—fake smile, clever joke, fast exit.
By 23:00, I was out. Exhausted. Pockets full of crumpled bills and loose change. I didn't love the stares. But 80€ back in one night? Worth it.
On the walk to the station, I stopped at a kiosk, grabbed a sandwich that looked edible, and ate it as I waited for the train. Turkey and cheese never tasted so divine. The bench was cold, but I didn't care. I leaned back, chewing slowly, and tried not to think about tomorrow.
Back in my apartment, I kicked off my shoes, didn't even bother to undress. I just crawled into bed like a corpse looking for a coffin.
6:30 a.m. would come again all too soon.
And I still had two jobs to go.