Chapter 8: The Weight of It All

The world doesn't stop moving just because I'm exhausted.

The alarm on my phone blares at 5:45 a.m., dragging me out of what feels like barely a blink of sleep. I fumble to shut it off, my fingers stiff with fatigue, and stare at the ceiling. My body is heavy, my mind already running through the day ahead. Three classes. A shift at the store. A quiz I barely studied for. Rent due next week. I should probably call my mom, just to make sure she's still—

I stop myself. I already know the answer.

Pushing the thoughts aside, I force myself out of bed. My apartment is small—just a tiny studio with a mattress on the floor, a thrifted desk in the corner, and a kitchenette that barely fits a microwave. But it's mine. I pay for it. I keep the lights on, the fridge stocked, the bills from piling up.

The coffee maker gurgles as I pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie. No time for breakfast, just caffeine. My first class starts at 7:30, and if I miss the bus, I'll have to speed-walk six blocks to make it. I grab my bag, shove my notes inside, and check the time. 6:15. I need to leave in five minutes.

Before I go, I glance at my phone. No messages. No missed calls.

I debate texting my mom, but what would I even say? Hey, how's rock bottom treating you today? I shut off the screen and shove the phone into my pocket.

By the time I get to campus, my hands are frozen from the morning air, and I'm already dreading the long day ahead. My first class is in a packed lecture hall, and even though I take notes and try to focus, my brain feels like it's wading through fog. I need to do well—I have to. My scholarships depend on it. My future depends on it. I won't be stuck in this cycle forever.

The rest of the morning is a blur of lectures, quick notes, and trying to stay awake. By noon, my stomach is protesting from lack of food, but I don't have time for lunch. Instead, I grab a granola bar from my bag and eat it while speed-walking to the bus stop.

Work starts at one.

The supermarket is the same as always—too bright, too cold, the smell of cleaning solution mixed with something vaguely stale. I clock in and head to the front, rolling my shoulders to shake off the weight of exhaustion.

It's not that I hate my job. It's fine. It pays the bills, and I'm good at it. But after hours of standing at a register, smiling at strangers, and repeating the same phrases over and over, I start to feel like I'm running on autopilot.

The regulars come and go. The old man who always buys a single can of soup. The mom with two toddlers who scream the entire time. And then there's Ethan.

I don't know when I started thinking of him by name, but now I do. It's easy—he comes in every day, always buying the same cherry lollipop. I don't know why, but I don't ask. He's polite, quiet, but his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary. Like he sees me.

Like he notices.

I shake off the thought and focus on scanning items. No distractions.

By my break time, exhaustion is pressing down on me so hard I feel like I could fall asleep standing up. The break room is empty when I step inside, the hum of the vending machines the only noise. I sink into one of the plastic chairs, stretching my legs out in front of me.

Just ten minutes. That's all I need.

I let my head rest against the table, my body sinking into the kind of exhaustion that makes it hard to move.

I don't mean to fall asleep.

But I do.

And then I'm there again.

Rain. Wet pavement. The sound of screeching tires. Headlights blinding through the windshield. My dad's hands gripping the steering wheel. My breath caught in my throat.

The impact slams into us. Glass shatters. The world spins. A deafening crash.

And then—nothing.

I wake up with a violent jolt, my heart slamming against my ribs. My breath is ragged, and my hands are trembling as I grip the table, trying to ground myself. It takes a second to remember where I am. The break room. Work. The scent of old coffee and disinfectant.

I exhale sharply and rub my hands over my face.

It's been years since the accident. Since my dad died. Since my whole world cracked open and I had to pick up the pieces alone.

And yet, the nightmares never go away.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the images from my head, but they linger like smoke—thick and suffocating. The flash of headlights, the feeling of weightlessness as the car spun, the sheer, helpless terror of knowing what was about to happen but not being able to stop it.

It was raining that night. I remember the way the raindrops hit the windshield, the soft thud, thud, thud of them against the glass. My dad was humming to the radio, something slow and easy, like he wasn't in a rush. He always told me to appreciate the small moments, to soak in the little things.

But that night, all I could think about was getting home. I was tired. I had school the next day. I barely paid attention when he spoke.

Then, out of nowhere, a pair of headlights cut across the dark.

Too fast. Too close.

The other driver didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.

The next thing I knew, the car was spinning. The sound of metal crumpling. My dad's arm reaching for me—too late, too late. The world flipped upside down. Glass shattered. My head slammed into something hard.

And then… nothing.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

And my dad never woke up at all.

I force my eyes open, my throat tight, my hands curled into fists. I don't have time for this.

I check my phone—two minutes left of my break. I force myself to stand, shake off the lingering weight of the dream, and adjust my name tag.

There's no time for grief.

No time for anything, really.

I push open the door, step back into the bright, buzzing store, and get back to work.