I am a private person.I carry my shame in quiet rooms.Yet at Trader Joe’s, a boy in a floral hibiscus shirt looked down at my conveyor belt and exposed my raw, bleeding interior to the public square."Bro," he said, holding up a package of frozen pork soup dumplings as though it were the Holy Grail recovered from Antioch."Have you had these? These slap so hard."I blinked.I had picked them because I was tired and alone."I haven't," I whispered.He leaned across the scanner. His eyes were wide with genuine, terrifying intimacy."Dude. Steam them for eight minutes, put chili crisp on top, and it will literally change your spiritual trajectory."He scanned my cheap bourbon."Oh, celebrating tonight? Good for you, man. You deserve it."I was not celebrating.My landlord had raised the rent and my car was making a sound like a dying crow.But under the warmth of his floral cotton gaze, I suddenly believed that I did deserve it.He bagged my bread on top, as gently as a mother tucking in an infant."Any big plans for the weekend?" he asked.I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to confess my sins, my doubts, the cold dread that wakes me at 4 AM. I wanted him to absolve me.Instead, I took my brown paper sacks and choked back a tear."Just resting," I said."Hell yeah," he replied, pointing a finger-gun directly at my sternum. "Rest hard, king."I walked to my car feeling as though I had been baptized in coconut oil and pure, weaponized California optimism.