"Ring... Ring... Ring..."
Flynn stirred beneath the warmth of his blanket, eyes still shut tight as the shrill sound of his cell phone pierced through the silence of the early morning. The ringtone echoed in the dimly lit room, muffled slightly by the pillow his face was buried in.
With a groggy sigh, he reached out blindly, his hand fumbling across the nightstand until his fingers brushed the cold screen of his phone. He didn't even bother checking who was calling.
"Hello...?" His voice was low, rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
"Hey, Flynn? I went to school yesterday and already found out our class. We're together in Class 2. Classes start next Monday. I'll drop by your house, so make sure you're ready early. We don't want to be late walking to school."
"Okay," Flynn said, nodding even though the other person couldn't see him. He ended the call quickly. Though he agreed, he honestly didn't fully understand everything the caller had said.
As soon as the line went dead, sleep tugged him back, and he drifted off again almost immediately.
Flynn hadn't been asleep for long when his father's voice gently roused him from his light nap. At first, he wanted to ignore it and drift back into sleep, but his father was persistent, not willing to let him slip back.
"Son, get up already. What time is it? You're always waking up at noon. Come on, get up now and eat something. After that, you need to go buy medicine for your Grandma at the pharmacy."
Flynn groaned softly, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But his father's voice had that tone—the one that made ignoring him impossible. With a heavy sigh, he finally forced himself out of bed.
"Didn't I just buy medicine recently?" he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes.
"Now I have to line up again... and look at the time. I'm going to wait in a long line again. You should've woken me up earlier."
There was a clear note of frustration in his voice, mixed with exhaustion. The thought of standing in a long queue wasn't something he was eager to face—especially when all he wanted was a little more rest.
"That amount you bought last week was just enough, and now it's all gone. You need to buy more so your grandma won't run out later."
Flynn scratched his head and quickly headed to the bathroom to splash water on his face, hoping the cold would jolt him fully awake. The cracked mirror above the sink reflected a boy who looked more tired than he should've been at his age. His black hair stuck out in awkward angles, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
While sitting at the table, Flynn quietly observed his father, Lucas, as he served the food.
Lucas was a man of sturdy build, standing at 180cm with a posture that carried both strength and weariness. His face was framed by a thin, well-kept beard, and his hair was trimmed in a clean, no-nonsense style that reflected his practical nature.
Ever since Flynn's mother disappeared when he was just ten years old, his father had been the one providing for them and managing all the problems at home.
In theory, Flynn admired his father's dedication. But in practice, it was hard to ignore the ways Lucas fell short. Meals were often rushed and barely edible. The house was frequently in disarray. Every well-intentioned effort seemed to end in mild disappointment.
Though Flynn tried to suppress it, a faint but persistent feeling of annoyance simmered within him. It wasn't that his father didn't care—it was that his care so often felt inadequate, leaving Flynn to grow up too fast and pick up the pieces his father left behind.
Unlike other kids who were free to play outside without a care, Flynn had been forced to mature early under the weight of his responsibilities at home. A primary source of that responsibility was sitting right across from him: his grandmother, Grandma Mina, his father's mother, who was now 85 years old.
Although she was still somewhat strong for her age, her memory had grown frail. She often forgot recent events, misplaced things, and sometimes even failed to recognize familiar faces. Because of this, she required constant supervision and was rarely, if ever, allowed to leave the house unattended—a duty that most often fell to Flynn.
After setting the food on the table, Lucas's first action was to carefully prepare a plate for his mother before finally sitting down to his own meal.
Flynn, however, just stared at his own plate. His eyebrows furrowed in distaste.
"Is this an egg or a piece of charcoal?" he remarked, poking at the overcooked food.
"I'm sorry, son. I was in a rush," Lucas replied, himself hurriedly eating. "I need to get to work on time. You know my salary is just enough for our daily expenses and your grandmother's medicine. I can't afford to have it deducted for being late."
Flynn didn't answer. With a quiet sigh, he just forced himself to continue eating. For the past eight years, this had been their daily routine. Lucas would wake up early to get things in order before heading off to work, and Flynn would swallow his frustration along with another disappointing meal.
But the truth was, whenever he had the chance, Flynn rarely let his father's cooking be his last option.
After breakfast, Flynn slipped on his worn sneakers and made his way down the narrow street just outside their neighborhood.
A familiar smell wafted toward him—fried garlic, onions, and freshly cooked rice.
It was Auntie Mary's Eatery.
The small eatery was nothing fancy—just a handful of wooden tables, a faded awning, and an old electric fan that squeaked when it turned. But for Flynn, it felt more like home than his actual dining table.
"Flynn! You're early today," Auntie Mary greeted warmly, wiping her hands on her apron as she noticed him walking up. She was in her late thirties, her long hair tied back neatly, her face carrying the calm glow of someone used to hard work but still managing to smile through it.
Flynn grinned faintly. "Auntie, Dad burned breakfast again."
She chuckled knowingly. "That man... he tries, but he'll never beat my dishes." She motioned him inside. "Sit down, I'll get you something quick."
Lucas himself sometimes ate here too, though not as often as Flynn. And whenever he did, there was always something subtle in the way Auntie Mary looked at him—something unspoken but noticeable. Flynn wasn't blind to it. He just chose not to comment.
While setting a plate of steaming rice and fried fish in front of him, Auntie Mary shook her head. "Your father's a good man, Flynn. He just... doesn't always know how to show it. Don't be too hard on him."
Flynn stabbed at the rice with his spoon. "Maybe. But sometimes, trying isn't enough."
Before Auntie Mary could respond, a voice from behind interrupted them. Lucas himself had appeared, holding a plastic bag with a few vegetables—likely ingredients he'd bought before work.
"You're here again, son," Lucas said, his tone flat but not angry.
His eyes flicked briefly to Auntie Mary before turning back to Flynn."Eat quick and head to the pharmacy after. Your grandma needs that medicine today."
Auntie Mary only smiled politely, though her gaze lingered on Lucas a little longer than necessary. Flynn noticed but remained silent, his appetite dulled not by the food, but by the strange heaviness in the air.
---
Later that afternoon, Flynn found himself exactly where he didn't want to be—at the pharmacy, stuck in an endlessly long line. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting everyone in a pale glow. The air smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant.
Flynn shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, clutching the prescription paper.
Behind him, a girl about his age leaned forward, her voice soft but insistent. "Hey, can we swap spots? I'm in a hurry, please. I'll owe you one."
Flynn turned slightly, eyebrow raised. She had short hair, a bright smile, and the kind of persistence that wouldn't easily take no for an answer.
"I can't," Flynn replied flatly. "I've been waiting too long already."
The girl pouted. "Then at least give me your number. Maybe I'll convince you next time."
Flynn blinked. Number? He almost laughed. He didn't even own a phone anymore—his old one had broken months ago, and he hadn't bothered replacing it.
But instead of explaining, Flynn simply pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled a random string of digits. "Here," he said, handing it to her.
Her eyes lit up as she took it. "Thanks! Don't ignore my texts, okay?"
Flynn gave a small nod, though inside he felt a strange mix of guilt and relief. She walked away looking satisfied, while he turned back to the line, expression unreadable.
As the queue inched forward, Flynn glanced at the prescription again, then at the people around him. Everyone seemed just as tired, just as resigned. It was the kind of place where time moved slower, where minutes stretched endlessly.
When his turn finally came, Flynn paid with the carefully counted bills his father had given him, tucked the medicine securely into a small bag, and stepped back out into the late afternoon air.
The sun was already lowering, painting the sky in soft shades of orange and pink. Flynn stood there for a while, watching people pass by—strangersw going about their lives, each with their own problems.
He tightened his grip on the bag of medicine and sighed.
Another day survived.
Another day waiting for something to change