I don't work because I love my job.
I work because rent doesn't care about passion.
My contract ends in three months.
That sentence sits quietly in my inbox, written in polite corporate language that pretends it isn't a warning. I read it on the morning bus, standing between strangers who smell like cheap cologne and exhaustion.
No one around me looks worried.
Which means everyone is worried about something else.
At the office, I do what I'm paid to do: tasks that don't leave fingerprints. Data entry. Replies without opinions. Fixing small mistakes that will be replaced by new ones tomorrow. I'm not bad at it. I'm just… replaceable.
During lunch break, I eat alone. Not because I have no one, but because conversations require energy I no longer budget for. I scroll through news I won't remember and photos of lives that don't resemble mine.
By the time evening arrives, my body moves on autopilot.
Bus. Stop. Walk. Key. Door.
Except that night, I stop at the bus shelter longer than usual.
I tell myself it's because the air feels colder.
I don't tell myself the truth—that I'm delaying going back to a room where nothing ever changes.
That's when I notice her.
She stands near the edge of the shelter. Not pacing. Not checking her phone. Just standing, as if waiting for something that isn't listed on any schedule.
She looks ordinary. Too ordinary. The kind of person you forget seconds after passing by.
And yet, I can't look away.
A small detail pulls at my attention—the digital clock above us.
22:14.
It flickers.
22:14 again.
I blink. Look away. Look back.
Still 22:14.
I let out a quiet breath. Lack of sleep does this. It bends things. Makes patterns where there are none.
I turn to leave.
"Hey."
The voice is soft. Careful. Like it's afraid of being too loud.
I stop without knowing why.
When I turn around, she's looking directly at me. Her eyes aren't startled. They're relieved.
"You can see me," she says. It's not a question. "Right?"
People walk past us. A couple laughs. Someone answers a phone call. The city keeps functioning perfectly.
No one reacts.
Only then do I realize something unsettling.
Nothing about my life has changed today.
But something has clearly gone wrong with the world.
(English Version)
I don't work because I love my job.
I work because rent doesn't care about passion.
My contract ends in three months.
That sentence sits quietly in my inbox, written in polite corporate language that pretends it isn't a warning. I read it on the morning bus, standing between strangers who smell like cheap cologne and exhaustion.
No one around me looks worried.
Which means everyone is worried about something else.
At the office, I do what I'm paid to do: tasks that don't leave fingerprints. Data entry. Replies without opinions. Fixing small mistakes that will be replaced by new ones tomorrow. I'm not bad at it. I'm just… replaceable.
During lunch break, I eat alone. Not because I have no one, but because conversations require energy I no longer budget for. I scroll through news I won't remember and photos of lives that don't resemble mine.
By the time evening arrives, my body moves on autopilot.
Bus. Stop. Walk. Key. Door.
Except that night, I stop at the bus shelter longer than usual.
I tell myself it's because the air feels colder.
I don't tell myself the truth—that I'm delaying going back to a room where nothing ever changes.
That's when I notice her.
She stands near the edge of the shelter. Not pacing. Not checking her phone. Just standing, as if waiting for something that isn't listed on any schedule.
She looks ordinary. Too ordinary. The kind of person you forget seconds after passing by.
And yet, I can't look away.
A small detail pulls at my attention—the digital clock above us.
22:14.
It flickers.
22:14 again.
I blink. Look away. Look back.
Still 22:14.
I let out a quiet breath. Lack of sleep does this. It bends things. Makes patterns where there are none.
I turn to leave.
"Hey."
The voice is soft. Careful. Like it's afraid of being too loud.
I stop without knowing why.
When I turn around, she's looking directly at me. Her eyes aren't startled. They're relieved.
"You can see me," she says. It's not a question. "Right?"
People walk past us. A couple laughs. Someone answers a phone call. The city keeps functioning perfectly.
No one reacts.
Only then do I realize something unsettling.
Nothing about my life has changed today.
But something has clearly gone wrong with the world.