Morning comes the same way it always does — a weak light leaking through the blinds and the sound of my parents moving around downstairs. I don't get up right away. I just lie there and listen to the house breathe.
Something feels different today. Not better. Just… different. I can't explain it. Maybe it's the weather. The sky outside looks washed out, almost white. The kind of day where everything feels like it's on pause.
I finally sit up and rub my eyes. My phone's dead again. When I plug it in, I notice a few missed calls — all from some unknown number. Probably spam. But one message stands out. It's from a guy I used to sit next to in middle school. I hadn't heard from him in years.
"Yo, Ace, still around here? I'm helping my uncle at the shop, we need an extra hand. You up for it?"
I stare at the screen for a long time before I answer.
"Maybe. What kind of shop?"
"Just deliveries, boxes, cleaning. Nothing crazy. We pay by the day."
I type "okay" and send it before I can talk myself out of it.
Then I sit there, staring at the word "sent," wondering if I've just made a mistake.
The place is an old hardware store a few blocks from the train station. The kind of store that still smells like wood and oil. The guy — Kenji — greets me with a grin that's too big for the place.
"Man, it's been forever," he says, slapping me on the back. "Didn't think you'd actually show up."
I shrug. "Neither did I."
He laughs, not in a mocking way, but like he actually means it. His uncle gives me a quick nod and tells me to stack boxes in the back. No small talk, no fake kindness. Just work. It's almost peaceful.
The hours pass slowly, but it's better than sitting in my room counting cracks in the ceiling. My hands ache from lifting, my back hurts, but it's a real kind of pain — not the empty one I'm used to.
When the day ends, Kenji hands me a small envelope. "Not much," he says. "But hey, you earned it."
It's barely enough for food, but it feels heavier than it should. I thank him, and for the first time in a long time, I mean it.
On the way home, I stop by the convenience store. I buy a canned coffee and drink it outside under the flickering streetlight. It tastes awful, but it's warm. For a moment, I feel almost okay.
My parents don't say anything when I come in late. My sister glances up from her phone, surprised maybe, but doesn't ask. I go straight to my room, take off my shoes, and collapse onto the bed. My arms are sore. My mind's quiet. That night, I sleep without dreams.
The next week, I keep going back to the shop. Kenji jokes too much, but he's easy to be around. Sometimes we eat lunch behind the store — convenience store rice balls, soda, silence between us that doesn't feel heavy.
He tells me he dropped out too, for a while. Said he got lucky when his uncle took him in. "Guess not everyone's meant for school," he says, smiling. "But you can still find stuff worth doing."
I don't answer. But I think about it later, lying in bed.
Stuff worth doing.
The words echo a little.
By the end of the month, I've saved enough to buy my sister a small birthday gift. Just a cheap phone case with some anime character she likes. I leave it on the table with a note that just says "Happy birthday."
That evening, she knocks on my door. I look up, expecting her to ask for something, but she just stands there.
"Thanks," she says quietly, and leaves.
It's not much. But it stays with me.
For a while, things feel like they're changing.
I wake up earlier. I shower. I even clean my room a little. The ceiling crack's still there, but it doesn't bother me as much. My mom still avoids eye contact, my dad still grumbles about wasted potential, but I don't care as much. There's work to do, and that's enough.
Then, one afternoon, I show up at the shop and see the shutters halfway down. A sign taped to the door reads:
"Closed indefinitely. Family emergency."
I call Kenji, but the number doesn't go through. No explanation. No warning. Just gone.
For a few days, I try to stay busy — walking around town, scrolling through job ads I'll never apply to. But the momentum fades fast. Without the store, the noise in my head starts coming back. The silence grows teeth again.
The last of my pay runs out after a week. My mom starts leaving bills on my desk. My dad mutters under his breath every time I walk past. My sister goes back to ignoring me.
And just like that, it's as if nothing ever changed.
I lie on my bed one night, staring at the same ceiling, same crack, same shadows. The faint smell of coffee still lingers on the hoodie I wore to the shop. I close my eyes and think about that day I first walked there — the air, the noise, the weight of the boxes in my hands. The simple feeling of being useful for once.
It already feels like someone else's memory.
Outside, rain starts again. It taps against the window, slow and soft, until it becomes the only sound left.
I whisper to no one,
"Guess it's just me again."