I don’t know if this even counts as a confession, or if I’m just shouting into the void because it’s 2:14 AM and the blue light of my phone is the only thing making me feel awake. I think maybe I’m supposed to feel more than I do. You know that feeling when the hum of the fluorescent lights in a store becomes the only thing you can hear? It’s like a low B-flat that vibrates right in your molars. I was standing by register four tonight, counting the till, and I had exactly 42 singles that were all crinkled and smelled like old copper and sweat. I just stared at them for three minutes. I think I’m losing my mind, or maybe I’m just becoming part of the inventory. I’m 39 now, which is a weird age because you’re old enough to have "Assistant Store Manager" on a business card but you still feel like a kid playing dress-up in a polyester tie. I spent ten years trying to be a muralist, you know? I have these tubes of Gamblin Cadmium Red in my apartment that cost $38 each and I haven’t touched them in eighteen months. Sometimes you just look at your life and realize you traded your *duende* for a 401k that doesn’t even have enough in it to buy a used Corolla. It’s pathetic, I guess. Or maybe it’s just how things are. Tonight was 10:02 PM when we finally finished the floor pull. I was watching Sarah and Leo near the breakroom—the one where the door doesn't quite latch, so it just bangs shut over and over. They were talking about the *gastos*, the money they don't have for the daycare that stays open late. Sarah’s mom has a bad hip and can’t watch the kids anymore, and Leo was checking his phone every 30 seconds—I counted, 12 times in six minutes—waiting for a text from his ex about picking up his son from the sitter. They looked so... used up. Like a piece of charcoal that’s been rubbed into a sidewalk until there’s nothing left but black dust. And the thing is, I’m the manager. I’m the one who is supposed to care, I think. I hear them talking about the sacrifices they make, the way they skip meals so their kids can have the good sneakers, the way they’re "doing it all for them." They look at me like I’m the lucky one because I don’t have anyone waiting at home. And maybe I am. I don't know. I just stood there clicking my pen—14 times, fast—and I felt like I was looking at them through a thick sheet of plexiglass. I could see their mouths moving, but I couldn't really feel the weight of what they were saying. It’s like my heart is a piece of stale pan dulce. It’s just... dry. At 10:15 PM, I took my keys out. The heavy ones on the blue lanyard that says *Carpe Diem* which is so STUPIDLY ironic it makes me want to grit my teeth. I told them I was heading out. I said, "See you guys tomorrow," and I just walked. I left them there, drowning in cardboard boxes and domestic stress, because my shift was over. I didn't stay to help. I didn't offer to close for them so they could get home. I just left. You know that feeling when you're supposed to be a jerk? Like, I should feel like a villain in a movie, but I just felt... empty. Like a soda bottle with no carbonation. The parking lot has exactly six lamp posts and two of them were flickering in this weird, syncopated rhythm. I got into my 2012 Honda Civic and the engine made that high-pitched whine for a second. I sat there in the dark. I looked at my hands and realized I had ink on my thumb from the deposit bag. I think maybe I should have felt guilty. I should have felt something for Sarah, who was probably going to cry in her car on the way home. But I just sat there thinking about how I needed to buy milk. I think they probably hate me a little bit. Or maybe they don't even think about me at all, which is worse, right? To them, I’m just the guy who leaves. The guy who doesn't have a "real" life because no one is screaming for my attention at 3 AM. Sometimes you want to feel the weight of something, even if it’s heavy enough to break your spine. Instead, I’m just... light. Like a dandelion seed that’s already been blown away. I’m 39 and I have a studio apartment with three dead succulents and a stack of art magazines from 2016 that I’m never going to read again. You ever feel like you’re watching a movie of your own life and the actor playing you is doing a really mediocre job? Like he’s just hitting his marks and saying the lines but there’s no spirit behind it. I’m the manager. I have the keys. But I’m driving past the Taco Bell at 10:34 PM and the neon purple light is reflecting in a oily puddle and I think it looks beautiful in a really pathetic way. I took a photo of it, but it looked like nothing on my screen. Just a smudge. I’m sitting on my floor now—I still haven't bought a proper couch because I keep thinking I'm going to move to Berlin or something, which is a lie I tell myself—and I’m eating a bowl of cereal at 2:18 AM. I’m staring at that unopened red paint on the shelf. It’s been there so long there’s a layer of dust on the cap. I think maybe I stayed in retail too long and it’s finally turned my brain into a spreadsheet. I don't know. I don't know if I'm a bad person or just a hollow one. It’s just... quiet here. Too quiet. Sometimes I wish I had something to sacrifice for, just so I’d have an excuse to be this tired.