Notes (drabble, dont know what im doing)

"You're right. Your health is important. Forget about this Sunday, get some rest." There was a note under my apartment door this morning written on a faded and coffee-stained index card. It was folded sloppily. There was loose earth gathering in the corners.

That was the day I lost my job. I had been working at a small, family-owned diner a few blocks from my apartment, right in between where I called "home" and the studio at school I spent most nights at. My bipolar manager coldly told me it was time they should let me go. Whatever that meant. Bitter, I stormed away, regretting that I hadn't just called in sick that day. Thinking back, it probably wouldn't have changed anything. Maybe I'll grab some coffee and some breakfast, I thought to myself. My financial situation was completely ruined, and my art institute's tuition wasn't exactly very helpful. Feeling low spirited, I strolled into a local cafe and stood at the counter for a while before a barista came rushing to the register. A customer kept her on the phone a while, she told me, she's terribly sorry, kind of out of breath. Her face was almost completely drained of its color. It's alright, I told her. I ordered a caramel frappuchino with an additional half-shot of espresso. She scratched my order down quickly on a lined purple notepad and drew her long, dark hair behind one ear. I wondered what her smile looked like. Her teeth were hidden behind cat-like, crimson painted lips and a silver lip ring. Maybe she had a single dimple on her cheek when she pressed her lips together in concentration. She asked me for my name. Jackie, I replied. Oh, so you're Jackie, she smiled, pushing her over-sized glasses up. Said something about someone coming in to drop off a note for me. She almost forgot, explaining that it was left here a few hours ago. I glanced at the clock habitually; it was already dawning on 11 am. They asked to keep their identity a secret, she couldn't tell me who it was. The cash register burst open and she handed me a lilac envelope with lace-textured borders and my name thinly written on the front, perfectly centered. I thought about the last time I had received a hand written letter. I couldn't think of anyone's familiar handwriting, only about the clay underneath my fingernails.
After paying and thanking her, I took a seat at a small, rustic table with two mustard colored wooden chairs. I tried to open the envelope carefully, but I always manage to accidentally rip envelopes anyhow, so I quickly tore the front flap off, revealing a folded, square piece of white paper, completely spotless. It was folded in half, holding an old five dollar bill. "My girlfriend cheated on me last month. I think she fell in love. Our lease ran out a few weeks ago maybe. I'm happy though, because I fell in love, too. There were a lot of things she did that I find abusive. But then, relationships aren't all black and white. There's a lot of gray in between everything else. Here's some money for the coffee."
I calmly finished my coffee and left the coffee shop, hiding any signs of emotion. How would someone guess-- No, how would they know I would be in that exact coffee shop on that particular day? I've never set foot in that cafe once in my life. I pulled my knit scarf up over my face, looking down at the bleak, cracking sidewalk under my feet.
I brushed against a few strangers due to my lack of attention as questions flooded and roared like a tsunami in my head. When I looked up, I found a mass of teenagers gathered outside a crumbling drug store, some puffing cigarettes, and others laughing out clouds of cold breath. I didn't realize how loud they all were until I was within a few feet of the crowd. I thought about how nice a smoke would be right about now. The strong smell of nicotine flooded my nose and I decided it wouldn't hurt to buy a pack. How long had it been since I'd smoked? Maybe a month or two? That was a low point.
I cut through the group, muttering a few 'excuse me's and 'sorry's here and there as smoke stung in my eyes. Grabbing the frosty door handle, I pushed into the drugstore. A bell jingled above me and again once the door shut with a thud. There were muddy foot prints littering the gray tile floor and off-white, florescent lights buzzing and flashing a bit on the ceiling. There was Matt behind the counter, feet propped up and a book closed in his lap. He was staring at his hand, stood up on his leg, scratching at something I couldn't see, maybe a scab. We had a few classes together in high school years ago, AP psych and ceramics. He had chronic depression and deep chasms of cheekbones from years of stress. I was worried that one day he would trip over his sinking self esteem and lose it all together. His sad eyes looked up at me and a devilish smirk formed on his lips. I might have had a crush on him my senior year, but he had a bitch of a girlfriend and a terrible past.
"What brings you to this side of town?" he joked, bringing his feet down off the counter. "How's quitting working out for you?"
"Camel light," I stated flatly.
"Not so great, I see," he laughed. Reaching up slightly to grab a pack, his flannel sleeves fell down, revealing an arm of scars. Some looked new.
"How are you doing lately, Matt?" I pressed, quietly.
He stole a glance over his shoulders at me and smiled shyly. "I'm doing alright."
"7.29 with tax," Matt stated. Sliding the cigarettes across the counter top to me he added, "How about yourself?"
"Fine. Hey-- you haven't been sending me notes, by chance, have you?"

(this is about all I have so far, constructive criticism or your opinion is always appreciated!) (disclaimer: to be quite honest, I'm only 15, I don't really have much writing experience)