Anyone else just… exist? like, you’re in a movie but it’s real life and you’re just watching yourself perform, every single day, every day? Because that’s what it feels like right now, and I’m just wondering if I’m the only one whose stomach clenches every morning the moment I open my eyes, before I even remember *why* it’s clenching, and then it’s like a little electric shock and suddenly the whole day is just… a performance. The new shop, you know? My shop. *Our* shop. Everyone keeps saying that, family, neighbors, even the mailman, “Oh, your shop, that’s so wonderful!” and I nod and I smile and I say thank you, and I talk about the new ovens and the custom display cases, and I talk about how my aunt helped pick out the paint color, a sort of warm butter yellow that’s supposed to feel inviting, and my dad helped with the electrical, and my brother-in-law, he’s a contractor, he got us the wood for the counter at a discount, and it’s all so lovely and wholesome and like a Hallmark movie, but then I’m just… there. Standing. Behind the counter. And the street outside is empty. Completely, absolutely empty. And it’s been empty for weeks now, even before we officially opened, even during that "soft launch" thing everyone said we HAD to do, and I just… watch it. All day. Through the big picture window. It’s the family money, isn’t it? That’s the real thing. My parents, they pulled out their retirement savings, the money they were saving for that little condo in Florida, and they just… gave it to me. For this. My dream, they said. Their dream too, really. To see me happy, successful, a business owner. My mother keeps calling, every afternoon, and she asks, “How was today, sweetie? Did we have a good turnout?” and I always say, “Oh, it was fine, Mom, a few people, you know, still building momentum,” and I hear the little pause on her end, and I know she knows. I know she drove by. I know she saw the empty street too. But she never says it. And I never say it. And we just… pretend. And it’s the quiet that’s the worst. The quiet in the shop. The hum of the refrigeration unit, and the whir of the oven fan, and the faint smell of yeast, and then just… nothing. No chatter. No footsteps. No jingling of the bell over the door. Just the sound of my own breathing, and my heart beating, a sort of frantic little bird trapped in my chest, and I can almost *feel* the money draining away, just seeping out of the bank account, every single day, every day that the street is empty, and I look at the custom display cases, and the fancy coffee machine we bought, and the special dough mixer, and I think, “This is all just… sinking. Every single dollar, just sinking.” I’ve started doing this thing, you know, where I look at the cars driving by, and I assign them a little story. That blue sedan? Probably a working mom on her way home, kids in the back, too busy to stop. The big white SUV? Someone going to the big box store a few towns over, not interested in a small, local bakery. And the joggers? They’re just… exercising. They’re not going to stop for a scone. And I build up these elaborate explanations, these perfect little narratives for *why* no one is stopping, and it’s like I’m trying to convince myself, to create a logical framework around this… this disaster. Because it feels like a disaster, an impending, slow-motion catastrophe that I can see coming but can’t, for the life of me, stop. And the neighbors. Oh, the neighbors. Mrs. Henderson from across the street, she comes in sometimes, buys a single croissant, and she looks around with this bright, searching expression, and she says, “Oh, it’s so lovely! I hope you do well!” and there’s this undercurrent, this *pity* almost, in her voice, and I just… nod. And smile. And I think, “She’s probably already telling everyone on the block that it’s not working out. She’s probably already telling them that the baker, the young one, she’s in over her head. Total bankruptcy in six months, probably less.” And it’s like my face is frozen in this pleasant, optimistic mask, and inside, my mind is just running these calculations, these horrifying, precise calculations of how many loaves of bread and how many cookies we need to sell just to break even, and how many we’re actually selling, and the numbers never, ever meet. Not even close. I’ve had this dream, you know, my whole life, since I was a little kid helping my grandmother roll out pie crusts, and it was always this picture, this perfect little picture in my head of a bustling shop, full of laughter and the smell of cinnamon, and people lining up, and now… now it’s here. It’s real. And it’s… quiet. So quiet it feels like a scream sometimes. And I just stand there, in the quiet, watching the empty street, and I think, is this it? Is this what it feels like when your whole life, everything you ever wanted, just… implodes? And you’re just standing there, watching it happen, unable to do anything but smile and pretend it’s all going to be fine. Am I the only one who feels like this? Like I’m drowning in perfectly baked bread and fancy coffee, and nobody cares?