“You look tired,” I say.

You smirk.
“Cool. Thanks.”

“I mean it more like… you seem worn out.”

“Same thing,” you mutter. “But sure.”

I wait a beat.

“You want to talk about it?”

You shrug.
“I mean, it’s just life. Same crap, different week.
I come here, I talk, I leave. Nothing feels different.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve noticed that.”

You raise an eyebrow.
“Okay. Cool. So what, am I doing therapy wrong?”

“No,” I say.
“But therapy’s not for everyone.”

That stops you.
You weren’t expecting it.

You lean ahead a little.
“Wait. Are you saying I should quit?”

“I’m saying it’s okay if this isn’t the thing that helps.
It’s not a failure.
It’s just… maybe this isn’t what you need right now.”

You sit with that.
A little defensive, a little relieved.

“So what do I need then?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.
“But I think you do. Somewhere under all the noise.”

You look down at your hands.
Pick at a hangnail.

“I’m tired,” you say again.
This time it sounds less like an excuse,
more like the truth.

“I know,” I say.

And we sit there,
not fixing anything,
but not walking away either.

No one sees you
before open,
slouched on a crate in the stockroom,
sipping burnt coffee like it’s a ritual
to summon the will.

The store wakes with a hum—
coolers groan,
lights flicker to life,
music loops the same pop song
like a joke only the building gets.

Your name tag feels like a brand.
Smile, nod, repeat.
Every “Let me check in the back”
buys you thirty seconds of silence—
your sanctuary behind swinging doors,
where no one’s pretending.

You learn people.
How need hides behind anger,
how “just looking”
means “don’t talk to me,”
how someone crying in aisle five
won’t explain—
but you sweep around them,
quiet,
human.

You stock shelves like nothing matters,
but it does.
Your hands ache from lifting
things no one notices
until they’re not there.
Your legs go numb standing still.
You dream of exits,
but show up anyway.

Some nights you close alone,
lock the door,
and exhale
like you’ve been holding your breath for hours.

Outside,
the world keeps spinning—
fast,
cold,
unaware
of what it costs to keep
everything running.