top of page


If you are interested in joining our team as a member or ambassador, please feel free to contact or dm us over Instagram @theoutlet.inspire!

Half Empty, Half Full

By: Luce Cada

She was sitting in one of the booths of the restaurant, scrolling through her with a glass of pink lemonade sitting in front of her. It was nearly full, a black straw sticking out of the top. 

By the time the waitress came over to her to ask if she was still going to order, the glass was half empty. 

“I’ll wait a bit longer,” the girl said, smiling weakly at her and absentmindedly running her finger along the moist parts of the outside. “Thank you.” 

All the waitress could do was smile back. 

Her fingers continued to encircle the glass, mouth sipping at the drink every once in a while, only looking up when the little bell rang as the door opened. 

If they looked up at the right time, they would see her texting someone with an agitated look on her face, the glass nearly empty. 

When the waitress came back, the girl ordered. There was no way she could finish what she ordered, but she went ahead with it anyway. The waitress came back with the appetizers and a full glass of pink lemonade, knowing it would be downed faster than the speed of light. 

She was too busy distracting herself with her phone to notice the sympathetic looks from those around her: the two girls across from her, the old couple in the corner, the family in line, and you. Alone, pretending to check the menu, but never being able to order because of her. Who was she waiting for? Was she waiting for the best friend, to be complete like the two girls across from her; or was she waiting for the significant other, to be complete like the old couple in the corner? 

You see her glass already half empty. Would you leave her alone? Or would you gather the courage to walk over and make her glass half full? 

Three Dinners

By: Austina XU

I could feel my mother’s eyes 

Darting from the table to the glass door,

as the heavy clamor of nails and barking wailed

for in-

Iron fists clenched our chopsticks, 

Not wanting to submit-

Hoping she wouldn’t,

she did

Tea eggs, bread, potato soup.


On Thursday,

The all too familiar scent of anger 

wafted into our rooms,

Newspaper ripping and mug slamming

wood screeching and cane pounding,

My mother 

did not want to submit

neither did the other

Mantou, noodles, cider.


We littered our countertop

with plastic boxes and shiny lids

that were later used for scraps,

We ate quickly,

exchanged words quickly 

I felt the chair on my left slide

away from the table

tofu, fish soup, meat-

they were still warm 

bottom of page