A/N: Takes place in Season 1, almost directly after the Piliot- will probably become AU.
The waitresses' apron didn't seem to be made to prevent stains on your clothing. Rachel wasn't sure what they were meant for, actually, except maybe to label her as someone who couldn't even stick with a major in college. Or more specifically, as someone with no dreams, no boyfriend, no future.
In leaving Barry, forcing open the cracked and dirty window in the bathroom had seemed metaphorical, and she had figured that once she had the strength to leave, everything would just fall into place.
Instead, she had been shocked to discover that cutting yourself off from your family meant cutting yourself off from the source of money as well. Monica had been quick to point out that you were not truly independent until you were not receiving money from your parents. Rachel did not necessarily agree with this philosophy, but she also had no intention of going back home, so it couldn't be helped.
Back home, Rachel had been living a lie without even realizing it. Every day, she had put on a mask, and every day, it had grown gaudier and gaudier as she tried to make up for the hollow pit of dread low in her stomach as the wedding date drew nearer.
Here, the masks had been thrown away with no warning, and all that was left was Rachel, exhausted from the effort of maintaining them for so long, yet nauseous at the prospect of living without them.
One thing was certain; she had never expected to become a waitress, even if it was what Monica optimistically called a filler job.
She wasn't even good at it. Serving other people had never been her thing, and she was having enough trouble getting used to serving herself. Unable to clean, she couldn't follow orders- and despite the others' protests, she was fully aware that she couldn't even make a decent cup of coffee.
Rachel tried to assure herself that everything would be all right- she had friends here, after all. Real friends, not the life-size Barbies like back home. But at least back there, everything was familiar. There was a carefully regimented schedule to follow- one that she had broken by coming to New York. Even in going back, and patching things up with Barry, the whispers would follow her everywhere she went.
Here, there were no rules past not putting your feet up on the coffee table in Monica's apartment. One of Monica's friends, Chandler, had told a dream with him as Liza Minelli and no one had even batted an eyelid. And although it was liberating in a way, Rachel wasn't quite sure she could handle this new-found freedom.
