**Diary Entry**
My stomach growled like a stray dog, and my hands were frozen stiff. I trudged along the pavement, staring through the glowing restaurant windows, the scent of freshly cooked food stinging worse than the cold. I didnt have a single penny to my name.
London was bitter. Not the kind of chill you could shake off with a scarf or by shoving your hands in your pockets. This cold seeped into your bones, a cruel reminder of how alone I wasno home, no food no one.
I was hungry.
Not the “I skipped lunch” kind of hunger, but the gnawing, days-deep kind. The sort that turns your stomach into a drum and makes your head spin if you stand up too fast. Real hunger. The kind that hurts.
It had been over two days since Id eaten anything. Just a sip from a public fountain and a stale crust of bread handed to me by a woman on the street. My shoes were falling apart, my clothes filthy, my hair tangled like Id wrestled the wind.
I wandered down a posh street lined with restaurants. Warm lights, soft music, the laughter of dinersit all felt like another world. Behind every window, families toasted, couples smiled, children played with their cutlery as if nothing in life could ever hurt.
And me? Id have killed for a slice of bread.
After circling the block, I slipped into a restaurant that smelled like heavenroast beef, buttery mash, gravy. Tables were full, but no one noticed me at first. Then I spotted a just-vacated table, scraps still on the plates. My heart leapt.
I moved carefully, eyes down. Sat like I belonged, like I had every right to be there. Before I could think, I snatched a crust from the bread basket and stuffed it into my mouth. Stale, but to me, it was a feast.
I scooped cold chips with shaking fingers, fighting tears. A dry bit of meat followed. I chewed slowly, savouring it. But just as I started to relax, a deep voice cut through me like a slap:
“Oi. You cant do that.”
I froze. Swallowed hard, staring at the floor.
A tall man loomed over me, sharp in a dark suit, shoes polished to a shine. Not a waiter. Not a regular customer either.
“Sorry, sir,” I stammered, face burning. “I was just hungry.”
I tried stuffing a chip into my pocket, as if that could salvage my dignity. He didnt speak. Just studied me, torn between anger and pity.
“Come with me,” he finally said.
I shrank back. “I wont steal anything. Just let me finish this, and Ill go. Promise.”
I felt tiny. Broken. Invisible. Like I didnt belongjust a nuisance, a shadow.
But instead of throwing me out, he signalled a waiter, then sat at a corner table.
I stood there, baffled. Minutes later, the waiter brought a steaming platefluffy mash, juicy beef, buttered peas, warm bread, a tall glass of milk.
“This for me?” My voice shook.
“Yeah,” the waiter said, smiling.
I glanced up. The man was watching me, calm, unreadable.
Legs like jelly, I approached him. “Why?”
He shrugged off his jacket like shedding armour. “No one should eat scraps to survive. Eat. I own this place. From now on, therell always be a meal here for you.”
Tears welled. I weptnot 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. I ate in silence, folded my napkin neatly after.
One evening, the man returned. Invited me to his table.
“Got a name?”
“Emily,” I whispered.
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
He nodded. Didnt pry.
After a pause, he said, “Youre hungry. But not just for food.”
I frowned.
“Youre hungry for respect. Dignity. For someone to ask how you are, not just see rubbish on the street.”
I had no reply. He was right.
“Family?”
“Gone. Mum died. Dad left. No one wanted me after.”
“School?”
“Dropped out. Too ashamed to go dirty. Teachers treated me like a freak.”
He slid a card across the table. “Go here tomorrow. A youth centre. Food, clothes, training. I want you there.”
“Why?”
“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, confidence.
Now Im twenty-three.
I manage the kitchen at that very restaurant. Hair clean, uniform pressed, shoes sturdy. I make sure theres always a hot meal for someone in need. Kids, elderly, mums-to-beall hungry for food, but also to be seen.
When they walk in, I smile and say, “Eat up. No judgement here. Just good food.”
The man still visits. Tie looser now. Sometimes we share a cuppa after my 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. Doesnt just destroyit drives.”
I know.
My story began with scraps.
Now? Now I cook hope.
