**Diary Entry 12th November**
My stomach growled like a stray dog, and my hands were numb from the cold. I shuffled along the pavement, peering through the glowing windows of restaurants, the scent of fresh food sharper than the winter air. Not a single penny in my pocket.
*NO ONE SHOULD EAT FROM THE SCRAPS.*
London was freezingthe kind of cold that no scarf or pocket-warmed hands could fix. It seeped into your bones, a cruel reminder that you were alone. No home. No food. No one.
I was hungry.
Not the “I skipped lunch” kind. The sort that nests in your body for days, turning your stomach into a drum, your head spinning if you stood too fast. Real hunger. The kind that hurts.
It had been over two days since Id eaten. Just a sip from a public fountain and a stale roll given by a kind stranger. My shoes were falling apart, my clothes filthy, hair tangled as if Id wrestled the wind.
I wandered down a street lined with posh restaurants. Warm lights, soft music, laughterall worlds away from mine. Behind each window, families toasted, couples smiled, children played with cutlery like life couldnt sting.
And me? Id have killed for a crust of bread.
After circling the block, I slipped into a place that smelled like heavenroast beef, buttery mash, fresh rolls. The tables were packed, but no one noticed me at first. Then I saw it: a just-cleared table, scraps still on the plate. My heart leapt.
I moved carefully, avoiding eyes, sitting like I belonged. Without thinking, I grabbed a cold roll from the basket and shoved it into my mouth. Stale, but to me, a feast. I scooped up cold chips with shaking fingers, fighting tears. A dry slice of beef followed. I chewed slowly, savouring it like my last meal.
Then a voice cut through me like a slap:
“Oi. You cant do that.”
I froze mid-bite. Swallowed hard. Looked down.
A tall man in a sharp suit stood over me. His shoes gleamed, his tie perfectly straight. Not a waiter. Not a regular.
“IIm sorry, sir,” I stammered, face burning. “Just hungry.”
I tried stuffing a chip into my pocket, as if thatd save me. He just stared, torn between anger and pity.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
I flinched.
“I wont steal anything,” I begged. “Let me finish this. Ill go. No trouble.”
I felt small. Broken. Invisible. Like a shadow no one wanted.
But instead of tossing me out, he waved over a waiter, then sat at a corner table.
I stood, baffled. Minutes later, the waiter brought a steaming platefluffy roast potatoes, tender beef, buttered greens, warm bread, a tall glass of milk.
“This for me?” I whispered.
The waiter nodded. “Aye.”
I glanced at the man. No mockery in his gaze. No pity. Just quiet calm.
I wobbled over to him.
“Why?” I croaked.
He shrugged off his jacket like shedding armour.
“No one should scavenge to survive,” he said firmly. “Eat. I own this place. From today, theres always a plate here for you.”
Tears scalded my eyes. I criednot just from hunger, but from shame, exhaustion, the relief of being *seen*.
—
I came back the next day.
And the next.
Each time, the waiter greeted me like a regular. Same table. Same quiet meal. Napkins folded neat when I left.
One evening, the suit man returned. Invited me to sit.
“Got a name?” he asked.
“Emily,” I mumbled.
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
He nodded. Asked no more.
After a pause, he said, “Youre hungry. But not just for food.”
I frowned.
“Youre starved for respect. Dignity. For someone to ask how you are, not treat you like rubbish.”
I had no answer. He was right.
“Family?”
“Gone. Mumillness. Dad left. Never came back. Got kicked out after. Nowhere to go.”
“School?”
“Stopped at Year 9. Too ashamed to go filthy. Teachers acted like I was vermin. Kids mocked me.”
He nodded again.
“You dont need pity. You need a chance.”
He slid a card across the table.
“Go here tomorrow. A youth centre. Food, clothes, training. Tools to rebuild. I want you there.”
“Why?” I breathed.
“Because I ate scraps once too. Someone helped me. Now its my turn.”
—
Years passed. I went to the centre. Learned to cook, read, use a computer. Got a bed, therapy, pride.
Now? Im twenty-three.
I manage the kitchen of that very restaurant. Hair clean, apron pressed, shoes sturdy. I make sure no one leaves hungry. Kids, elders, mothersall starving for more than food. For someone to *see* them.
When they walk in, I smile and say:
“Eat up. No judgment here. Just warmth.”
The suit man still visits. Tie looser now. Sometimes we share a cuppa after shift.
“Knew youd go far,” he said once.
“You gave me the start,” I replied. “The rest? I did hungry.”
He laughed.
“People underestimate hunger. It doesnt just break you. It can drive you.”
And I knew.
Because my story began with scraps.
Now? Now I cook hope.
**Lesson:** A full belly means nothing without dignity. But give a man both, and youll feed his soul, not just his hunger.
