Emma Johnson’s POV

It's 6:30 AM, and the alarm goes off with its usual jarring sound. I hit the snooze button reflexively, then immediately regret it. There's no time for even five extra minutes today—not with the deadline at the office, not with the bills piling up, and certainly not with my mother expecting me to take her to the hospital later.

I sigh, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the city waking up outside. My room is dim, the early sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, casting long shadows on the beige walls. I sit up, running my hands through my tangled hair and feeling the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders before it's even begun. The burden feels heavier lately, as if every step I take is through quicksand.

"Emma, you're going to be late again," I mutter to myself, forcing my feet to touch the cold wooden floor.

The mirror greets me with a reflection I barely recognize some mornings. Tired eyes. Dark circles. My hair is dull, and my skin looks like it could use a good week of rest. I'm only twenty-eight, but I feel so much older. A glance at my phone reminds me of all the things I have to face today.

I scroll through the notifications, the same way I do every morning. Emails from work, some reminders for overdue bills, and a text from my mother that she sent late last night. I don't open it, not yet. I already know what it will say, and I don't want to start the day with that added guilt. It's always the same—something about her worrying, how things are tough, how she knows I'm doing my best, but...

I can't dwell on it right now. There isn't time.

I step into the small bathroom, trying not to think about the leaky faucet that still needs fixing. I've been meaning to call the landlord about it for months now, but there's always something more urgent. Something else to prioritize over myself.

Once I'm dressed—black slacks, a cream blouse, the only pair of heels I own that doesn't give me blisters—I head to the kitchen.

I stood in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee, the aroma filling the air and momentarily distracting me from the whirlwind of thoughts that occupied my mind.

I finish my coffee in silence and leave for work. The subway is packed, as usual, a sea of tired faces and empty stares. I blend in seamlessly, just another person caught in the endless grind.

By the time I arrive at work, I'm already exhausted. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz quietly, and the office is filled with the hum of keyboards and low chatter. I slide into my cubicle and power up my computer, trying to push everything else out of my mind.

---

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the spreadsheet in front of me. Rows of numbers blur together as my thoughts wander, slipping away from the drudgery of the moment. My fingers hover over the keyboard, unmoving. I've been sitting in the same position for hours, just existing, going through the motions of a life that feels like a never-ending cycle of unfulfilled ambitions. The dream of becoming an architect feels like a distant memory, like something I once reached for in the naivety of my youth.

I let out a long, slow breath and glance at the stack of unpaid bills cluttering the corner of my desk. The sight pulls me back to reality like a harsh slap. Rent is due, utilities are overdue, and then there's Dad's hospital bills. A massive debt that looms over me like a dark cloud, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. The medical expenses have been relentless since he got sick. Every time I think we've made a little progress, something else happens, some new complication that requires more treatment, more money.

I rub my temples, feeling a headache coming on. I have to keep it together. I have to keep moving forward, for Mom, for Dad, for my brother Jack, who is still in college. I'm the one holding it all together, and I've been holding it together for so long that I've forgotten what it's like to not be weighed down by responsibility.

My phone buzzes next to me, and I instinctively grab it, half-hoping it's something to distract me from the crushing reality of the bills. But it's Mom. I stare at her name for a moment before answering.

"Hi, Mom," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to sound upbeat even though I know she can see through it.

"Hi, sweetie," she replies, her voice soft but strained. She's been stressed too, and I know she tries to hide it, but the worry always slips through. "I just wanted to check in on you. How's work?"

"It's fine," I lie, glancing at the clock. I have another hour before I can leave, but it feels like an eternity. "Just the usual."

There's a pause on the other end, and I can tell she's hesitating. She doesn't want to ask me, but I know what's coming.

"They called from the hospital again. There's… there's another bill. They said it's urgent."

My heart sinks. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of it all settling on my shoulders again. "How much this time?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Another thirty thousand," she says quietly, like she's afraid saying it any louder will make it worse. "I'm so sorry, Emma. I don't know how we're going to—"

"Don't worry about it," I cut her off, the words coming out more forcefully than I intended. "I'll take care of it."

There's a moment of silence, and I know she's biting her lip, holding back the tears. "Thank you," she says softly. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

I hang up and stare at the phone in my hand, the familiar knot tightening in my chest. The feeling of being trapped, of being stuck in this endless cycle, washes over me again. How did I get here? How did my life turn into this? I'm supposed to be designing buildings, sketching blueprints, bringing my visions to life. Not drowning in paperwork and bills, barely scraping by in a job that makes me feel invisible.

I turn back to the computer screen, but my hands refuse to move. I can't focus. I'm exhausted, physically and mentally. It's been months since I had a decent night's sleep, and the constant worry gnaws at me like a persistent ache that never goes away.

I'm doing everything I can, but it never feels like enough.

---

That evening, I walk into my apartment, kicking off my shoes by the door and dropping my bag on the floor. The small space feels emptier than usual, quieter. It's just me tonight. Jack's still at school, and Mom and Dad live in the house I grew up in, a couple of hours away. The distance feels wider these days, as if the physical miles aren't the only thing keeping us apart.

I flop down on the couch and stare at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts of everything I have to do, everything I can't seem to fix. I should look for a second job, maybe a part-time gig at a café or something, but the thought of adding even more hours to my already packed schedule makes me feel even more overwhelmed.

But what choice do I have?

My phone buzzes again, and I glance at it reluctantly. A message from Sarah, my best friend since high school, pops up on the screen.

**Sarah**: Hey, you free for drinks tonight? It's been foreverrrr.

I stare at the message, torn between the need to escape, even for just a couple of hours, and the crushing guilt of spending money on something so frivolous when there are bills piling up.

After a moment, I type back a quick reply.

**Me**: Can't tonight. Work's crazy. Rain check?

The truth is, I don't want her to see how stressed I am. Sarah has always been the carefree one, floating through life with ease, while I've been stuck, tied down by obligations and responsibilities. She wouldn't understand.

I set my phone down and close my eyes, trying to push away the overwhelming sense of failure that's been creeping in more and more lately. I feel like I'm stuck in quicksand, and the harder I try to pull myself out, the deeper I sink.

---

The next day at work is just as monotonous as the last. My boss, Mr. Carter, is in his usual foul mood, snapping at everyone for the slightest mistake. I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact, just trying to make it through the day without drawing his attention.

By lunchtime, I'm already drained. I grab my sandwich and head to the small park across the street, needing a few moments of peace before I dive back into the chaos of the office.

As I sit on a bench, nibbling on my sandwich, my mind wanders back to the dreams I used to have. The dreams that once felt so close I could almost touch them.

I remember the first time I fell in love with architecture. I was twelve, and my class took a field trip to the city to visit an art museum. But it wasn't the art that caught my attention—it was the building itself. The sweeping arches, the clean lines, the way the light poured through the massive windows. It was like the building was alive, telling a story through its very structure. I knew then that I wanted to be an architect, to design buildings that made people feel the way I felt in that moment.

But somewhere along the way, life got in the way. College was a struggle—I had to work part-time to help pay for my tuition, and by the time I graduated, Dad's health had started to decline. I took the first job I could find, thinking it would just be temporary, a stepping stone until I could find something in my field. But then the bills started piling up, and suddenly, the dream of becoming an architect seemed more like a fantasy than a realistic goal.

I sigh, crumpling the wrapper from my sandwich in my hand.

I'm tired of feeling stuck, tired of putting my life on hold for everyone else. But what choice do I have? My family needs me. I can't just walk away from that.

---

Later that evening, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, trying to sort through the bills when there's a knock at the door. I glance at the clock. It's late, and I'm not expecting anyone.

I open the door to find Jack standing there, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Surprise!" he says, holding up a bag of takeout. "Thought I'd come visit and bring you dinner."

I step aside to let him in, my heart warming at the sight of him. Jack has always been the light in our family, the one who can make me smile even when everything feels like it's falling apart.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" I tease as he sets the bag down on the table.

"I needed a break," he says, shrugging. "Besides, I wanted to see you. You've been so stressed lately."

I raise an eyebrow. "Mom's been talking, hasn't she?"

He laughs. "Maybe a little. But she's worried about you. We all are."

I sit down across from him, suddenly feeling guilty. I've been so focused on keeping everything together that I've been shutting everyone out, not wanting them to see how much I've been struggling.

"I'm fine," I say, even though I know it's a lie.

Jack gives me a look. "Emma, you're not fine. You're carrying all of this on your own, and it's not fair."

"I don't have a choice," I say, my voice quieter than I intended. "Someone has to take care of everything. Someone has to make sure the bills get paid, and that Dad gets the treatment he needs. I can't just walk away from that."

"No one's asking you to walk away," he says gently. "But you don't have to do it all alone. We're a family. We're supposed to help each other."

I look away, blinking back tears. I've been holding everything in for so long that