empty street. again. 3am, scrolling. the fluorescent hum of the pastry case, reflecting nothing. just my face, hollow, tired. this is it, isn't it? the big one. the dream. the, what do they say, *calling*? felt so real a few months ago. like a warm blanket. now it’s just… a guillotine. six months. that’s what I keep hearing in my head. six months before the family savings are gone. before we’re all, well, toast. funny, that. a baker, worried about toast. and the kids, man. they came in today, little faces pressed against the glass, pointing at the croissants like it was magic. my youngest, "Mama, you made this for ME?" and that feeling, that high. lasts maybe ten minutes. then I'm back here, alone, watching the phantom cars. did I tell them it was *their* college fund? no. of course not. what kind of monster does that? a monster who just wanted to make something beautiful. something *mine*. after years of just… being mom. being wife. being the glue, the planner, the cleaner of sticky surfaces. I wanted to bake myself a new identity. and now it feels like I’m just baking us all into a hole. a big, delicious, expensive hole. sometimes I just wanna scream, throw a baguette at the plate glass. see what happens. would anyone even notice? is anyone even out there? it’s like I built this whole elaborate stage, lit it up, baked the most beautiful props… and nobody came. a one-woman show for the pigeons. ha! the dark comedy of it all. we’re all so damn busy chasing something. something shiny. something that says, 'I MATTER.' and then what? you catch it, hold it in your hands, and it turns out to be… empty street. just the street. and the hum. and the worry that the flour dust in my hair isn’t just from baking, but from the slow, agonizing crumble of everything.