NO ONE SHOULD EAT LEFTOVERS

The city was freezing. That cold that can’t be removed with a scarf or your hands in your pockets. It was that cold that gets into your bones, reminding you that you’re alone, homeless, without food… without anyone.

I was hungry.

Not that “I haven’t eaten in hours” hunger, but the kind that stays in your body for days. The kind that makes your stomach rumble like a drum and makes your head spin when you bend over too quickly. Real hunger. The kind that hurts.

I hadn’t eaten in over two days. I’d only drank a little water from a public fountain and bit into a piece of stale bread a woman had given me on the street. My shoes were torn, my clothes dirty, and my hair tangled as if it had been fighting the wind.

I was walking down an avenue lined with elegant restaurants. The warm lights, the soft music, the laughter of the diners… it was all a world foreign to my own. Behind every window, families were toasting, couples were smiling, children were playing with their cutlery as if nothing in life could hurt them.

And I… I was dying for a piece of bread.

After wandering several blocks, I decided to enter a restaurant that smelled wonderful. The aroma of roasting meat, hot rice, and melted butter made my mouth water. The tables were full, but at first, no one paid attention to me. I spotted a table that had just been cleared, still with remnants of food, and my heart leaped.

I walked carefully, not looking at anyone. I sat down as if I were just another customer, as if I too had a right to be there. And without a second thought, I picked up a piece of stale bread that had been left in the basket and put it in my mouth. It was cold, but to me, it was a delicacy.

I stuffed cold potatoes into my mouth with trembling hands and tried not to cry. Next, a nearly dry piece of meat. I chewed it slowly, as if it were the last bite in the world. But just as I was beginning to relax, a deep voice hit me like a slap:

“Hey. You can’t do that.”

I froze. I swallowed hard and looked down.

He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. His shoes shone like mirrors, and his tie fell perfectly over his white shirt. He wasn’t a waiter. He didn’t even look like a normal customer.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered, my face burning with embarrassment. “I was just hungry…”

I tried to stuff a piece of potato into my pocket, as if that would save me from humiliation. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or sympathetic.

“Come with me,” he finally ordered.

I took a step back.

“I’m not going to steal anything,” I pleaded. “Let me finish this and I’ll leave. I swear I won’t make a scene.”

I felt so small, so broken, so invisible. As if I didn’t belong there. As if I were simply an annoying shadow.

But instead of kicking me out, he raised his hand, signaled to a waiter, and sat down at a table in the back.

I stood there, not understanding what was happening. A few minutes later, the waiter approached with a tray and placed a steaming plate before me: fluffy rice, juicy meat, steamed vegetables, a slice of warm bread, and a large glass of milk.

“Is this for me?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Yes,” the waiter replied, smiling.

I looked up and saw the man watching me from his table. There was no mockery in his gaze. No pity. Just a kind of inexplicable calm.

I approached him, my legs like jelly.

“Why did you feed me?” I whispered.

He took off his jacket and placed it on the chair, as if shedding invisible armor.

“Because no one should scavenge through leftovers to survive,” he said firmly. “Eat in peace. This place is mine. And from today on, there will always be a plate waiting for you here.”

I was speechless. Tears burned my eyes. I cried, but not just from hunger. I cried from shame, from exhaustion, from the humiliation of feeling inferior… and from the relief of knowing that someone, for the first time in a long time, had truly seen me.

•••

I came back the next day.

And the next.

And the next, too.

Each time, the waiter greeted me with a smile, as if I were a regular customer. I sat at the same table, ate in silence, and when I finished, I left the napkins folded carefully.

One afternoon, he appeared again: the man in the suit. He invited me to sit with him. At first, I hesitated, but something in his voice made me feel safe.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“Lucia,” I replied quietly.

“And your age?”

“Seventeen.”

He nodded slowly. He didn’t ask any more questions.

After a while, he said:

“You’re hungry, yes. But not just for food.”

I looked at him, confused.

“You’re hungry for respect. For dignity. For someone to ask how you are and not just see you as trash on the street.”

I didn’t know how to answer. But he was right.

“What happened to your family?”

“They died. My mother from a