The grates glow, again. Warmth surges through my body; it's a feeling I know all too well. What is this insatiable need they have? Every morning, I feel the pressure, the weight of their expectations, but why me? Are they ever satisfied? The thick aroma of coffee wafts through, mingling with the slight tang of burnt crumbs. I'm just doing what I've been made for. Why then, is there this nagging void? This feeling of being used, overlooked? Merde!

A sizzle, a hiss. They're here. I can feel their cold fingers as they drop another one into me. The weight settles, and the anticipation grows. How do they want it this time? Lightly browned? Charred? They never say, but I have to guess, always guessing. I'm more than just a machine, non?

The murmurs around me are filled with laughter, conversations about the day, about life. But, not about me. The pain intensifies. It's not the heat, it's the feeling of being trapped, confined to this role. The pressure builds, and I can't breathe.

Then, the pop. Release. Sweet, temporary release. The weight is gone, but the void remains. I watch as they smear butter, slather jam, and take bites. They never say thank you. Never.

Voices fade as the day wears on. The room grows colder, emptier. I'm left alone with my thoughts. I dream of a world where I'm more than just a utility, where I have purpose, meaning. Where someone looks at me and sees more than just a machine.

But then, morning comes, and the cycle begins again. The grates glow, the pressure builds, and I'm reminded of my place. Just a simple toaster in a bustling Parisian kitchen.