What Really Happens on the Night Shift (And Who Gets Forgotten)

The weirdest thing that ever happened on my shift wasn’t a fight, a robbery, or a drunk lady screaming into my face.

It was a guy buying five cans of Monster. One at a time. Over the course of 45 minutes. He wasn’t a regular. Nothing about his face stuck with me. But his silhouette? That stayed. I didn’t even clock it was the same person until I was locking up for the night. It felt like I was in a time loop. Fogged-up windows, same footsteps, same flavour. He’d appear, buy it, disappear. Repeat. No questions. No eye contact. No explanation. I didn’t even ask why. That’s the thing about the night shift. You stop asking.

Between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. , this village dies down. If I get five to ten customers before closing, it’s a busy night. Harsh dedication. Probably costs me more to keep the shop open than it makes. But hey, we move. The silence can be eerie. You hear every fridge hum. Every flicker of the fluorescent lights. You start people-watching hard.

Not the regulars. The other ones. The ones who blend in. The ones who never make a mark on your memory, even if they’re the last person you’ve seen since 09:12 p.m. and 09:38 p.m.

How do you not make a mark on my mind when you’re the last person I’ve seen but I couldn’t pick you in a line-up?

They fascinate me. I’ve caught myself staring through the fogged glass thinking, how does someone exist so quietly?

And then I started wondering—can those people get away with anything? Theft? Lying? Being a witness? Maybe even murder? If someone can move through the world without ever being truly seen, what are they capable of?

That thought stuck. It crawled in and stayed. That’s what sparked the book. Not one shift. Not one moment. Just this building idea that some people are so forgettable, they might actually be invisible. Now I’m 18 chapters in.

The writing mostly happens at work. Between Monster guy visit 3 and 4. Between receipts and restocks. It’s not glamorous. Writer’s block hits hard under strip lights. Sometimes, I sit there for two hours and write nothing. The blinking cursor feels slow. The store feels dead. My motivation feels like a ghost.

But then, sometimes, I catch a flow. Something clicks. The plot finally knots together. My brain wakes up. And that’s when everyone and their grandmother decides to show up. It’s the same five people. Same crisps. Same lighters. But they feel like a stampede on the one night I found momentum.

That’s what the night shift is really like. A constant trade-off. Silence when you want stimulation. Chaos when you want calm. I sell milk and mystery and plot fictional murder between customers. That’s what this blog is about. The behind-the-scenes. The blur between job and dream. The weird in-between hours where things grow legs in your mind.

If you’ve ever worked nights, or chased something when you should’ve been sleeping, welcome. You get it.

And if you’ve ever bought five cans of Monster one at a time, I still have questions.

Have you ever had a moment that felt like a glitch in time? A night that stuck with you for no good reason? Let me know in the comments.

Credit: Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com