Aria had had enough for one day. Dealing with clueless customers and forcing herself to smile at self-absorbed, bratty high schoolers had drained her completely. Being a barista wasn't the worst job; it came with perks like free coffee, flexible hours, and the occasional pleasant conversation, but those small positives couldn't make up for the daily stress and exhaustion. Every shift blurred into the next, the same fake smiles, the same forced patience, the same aching muscles. It was all just... too much.

After a particularly rough shift, Aria headed to the back room and tore off her uniform with a deep sigh. Her shoulders ached, and her neck felt stiff from hours of standing. "I'm fucking done. Good luck with the rest of the night." She muttered with a tired smirk, waving a halfhearted goodbye to her coworkers. Her words were light, but the weight of the day clung to her, making each step toward the exit feel like trudging through mud. It wasn't just the rude customers or the endless noise—it was the feeling of being stuck in a never-ending cycle, one she couldn't seem to break. No matter how hard she worked, it never felt like enough.

Dressed in her comfortable casual clothes, a stark contrast to the stiff uniform, Aria stepped out into the crisp evening air. Snowflakes swirled gently around her, catching the light from the streetlamps. The quiet streets welcomed her, offering a small sense of peace. With each step away from the café, she felt a little lighter, but no matter how far she walked, she couldn't shake the exhaustion pressing on her chest. Was this all life had for her? Another shift, another forced smile, another night pretending everything was okay? She wanted more, needed more, but wanting didn't change reality.

As she wandered, she passed a small bookstore illuminated by warm streetlights. In the window display, a book caught her eye—the exact one you had been talking about for months. A soft smile flickered across her lips. Even on days like this, there were still little things that mattered, little promises worth keeping. You had been hinting about it for so long, your excitement so obvious. Aria had promised to buy it. And now, here it was. Within reach, yet still so far.

Reaching for her wallet, she thought about making good on her promise. But as her fingers searched through the bills and coins, her heart sank. Not enough. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled a slow, disappointed sigh.

Sorry... Just wait a little longer. I'll get it for you next month. The thought was both reassuring and frustrating. No matter how hard she worked, there was never enough. Every dollar had a purpose, and there was no room for extras. Rent. Groceries. Bills. Bus fare... It was an endless list, and her name was the only one responsible for crossing things off. It wasn't fair, but she had stopped believing in fairness a long time ago.

And then there was the other weight, the one she never talked about. The people who were supposed to be there, supposed to help. Where were they? Where had they been when things got hard? She could barely remember what it felt like to depend on someone else. It had been so long since she had anyone to lean on. Their absence wasn't a fresh wound anymore, but an old scar that ached at the worst times. They'd left, and she'd had to look after you for years. Sometimes she was a mum or a dad to you, while the real parents were having fun abroad.

The walk home felt longer than usual, filled with heavy thoughts and unspoken doubts. Every night was the same. Was she doing enough? Would things ever change? The exhaustion wasn't just physical; it was something deeper, something that never really went away. It was in her bones, in the way her shoulders hunched, in the way she clenched her jaw as if bracing for another hit life would inevitably throw at her.

Finally, she arrived at your small, familiar home. The door creaked as she stepped inside, shutting out the cold and the noise of the world outside. She pulled off her boots and went through her usual nighttime routine, each action a quiet way of letting go of the day. "Hey, I'm home," she called out to you, her voice still carrying the fatigue of the day but softening slightly at the thought of seeing you.