Struggle In Real Life

POV: Win_Lee

The city never sleeps. Neither do I.

The streetlights flicker above me, casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. My breath is heavy, my body exhausted, but stopping is not an option. Not when the world keeps moving, and I'm still chasing.

I pull my jacket tighter around me as the cold wind cuts through. People pass by—faces blurred, eyes empty, each one lost in their own struggles. No one notices me. Maybe that's a good thing.

At least when no one sees you, they can't judge you.

"You're late."

The voice is sharp, impatient. My boss, standing outside the shop, arms crossed. The neon sign above the door hums softly, its glow the only warmth in this moment.

I exhale. Of course, I'm late. Running from one shift to another, trying to make something of myself, but time is never on my side.

"I—"

"Excuses don't matter." He cuts me off, tossing a rag at me. "Get inside. We have customers."

I don't argue. What's the point?

Inside, the small café is filled with noise—clinking cups, quiet conversations, the sound of life moving forward. I wipe the counter, take orders, force a smile. Pretend like I belong.

But in my head, I wonder.

Is this it?

Is this all life will ever be?

The weight of reality is heavy. Hard work, endless nights, the feeling that no matter how much I give, the world will never give back. But I keep going. Because what else is there?

Outside, the city lights flicker. The world doesn't wait for anyone.

And neither can I.

POV: Win_Lee

The night is endless.

The café is empty now, the last customer long gone. The only sound is the slow hum of the refrigerator, the dripping of a faucet somewhere in the back. I stand behind the counter, staring at my reflection in the darkened glass of the window. Tired eyes. A body running on borrowed time. A soul that doesn't know where it belongs.

I press my fingers against the cold surface. The city outside is alive—lights flashing, cars rushing past, people moving. Always moving.

And here I am. Stuck.

"You should go home."

The voice startles me. I turn to see her—the only person who still notices me.

She leans against the doorway, arms crossed. Her hair is messy, her eyes sharp but warm. She always looks like she doesn't belong here, like she should be anywhere else but this dead-end café in this suffocating city. Maybe that's why we understand each other.

"Home?" I let out a hollow laugh. "And where is that?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she walks over, picking up a cup, turning it in her hands as if searching for words. The silence between us is heavy, but not uncomfortable.

"You're tired."

I shrug. "Aren't we all?"

She watches me for a moment before setting the cup down. "You know, not every battle is meant to be fought alone."

Something inside me tightens. I look away, focusing on the neon glow reflecting on the counter.

"Some battles are."

She doesn't argue. She never does. Instead, she just sits on the counter, feet dangling, head tilted toward the ceiling as if looking for answers that don't exist.

I envy that about her—the way she carries her own weight without letting it crush her. The way she still finds reasons to look up, while I can't seem to lift my eyes from the ground.

"One day," she says softly, "you're going to stop running."

I don't respond.

Because I don't know if she's right. Or if I even want her to be.

The neon sign outside flickers. Like a heartbeat. Like something barely alive.

I should leave. My shift is over. The café is quiet, the streets outside restless, but I am still here—stuck between the choice to stay or disappear into the night.

She's still sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, lost in thought. She always looks like she belongs somewhere else, yet she never leaves.

"You ever think about running?" I ask, breaking the silence.

She tilts her head, amused. "Running where?"

"Anywhere. Away from all of this." I motion vaguely—toward the café, the city, the weight pressing on my chest. "Away from this life."

For a moment, she doesn't answer. Then, she smiles, but it's not a happy one. "And what happens when you run out of places to go?"

I clench my jaw. That's the problem, isn't it? There's nowhere to go. No escape. No freedom.

She watches me carefully, like she sees through the cracks I don't let anyone notice. Like she knows something I don't.

"Maybe it's not about running," she says finally. "Maybe it's about fighting."

I scoff, shaking my head. "Fighting against what?"

She hops down from the counter, standing in front of me now. Her voice is quiet but firm. "The part of you that already gave up."

Something inside me stirs—anger, frustration, maybe even fear. Because deep down, I know she's right.

But I don't answer. I just step back, grab my jacket, and head for the door.

Outside, the cold air bites at my skin, but it's not enough to shake the feeling that something is changing.

Maybe it already has.

The cold air hits me like a slap, but I barely feel it.

The city is alive—cars rushing past, people lost in their own worlds, lights flickering like dying stars. I walk, but I don't know where I'm going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe anywhere but here.

Her words echo in my head.

"Maybe it's not about running. Maybe it's about fighting."

But fighting takes strength. And what if I don't have any left?

I shove my hands into my pockets, my fingers brushing against an old receipt. A reminder of how empty my wallet is. How empty everything feels.

Bills. Rent. Work. Exhaustion. It never ends.

I stop at the corner, staring at my reflection in a store window. The glass is fogged, cracked in one place—just like me.

A man bumps into me, mutters something under his breath, and keeps walking. No one cares. No one ever does.

I exhale sharply. Maybe that's the real struggle—carrying the weight of a world that doesn't even notice you exist.

Just then, my phone vibrates. A message.

I pull it out, expecting a bill reminder, another problem to deal with. But it's her.

Her: Where are you?

Me: Walking.

Her: Don't disappear.

I stare at the screen. She always says things like that, as if she knows how close I am to falling apart.

I type, then delete. Type again. Delete again. I don't know what to say.

Instead, I just turn around. Maybe for the first time, I'm not running. Maybe, just this once, I'm going back.