I’m up again, it’s like 2 AM here, and I just can't sleep. Same old thing, just thinking about… everything, I guess. It’s been, what, twelve years now? Since I came here. To this city, this country. To work at the laundry. My back kinda aches most nights, from all the lifting, you know? And the heat. It’s always so hot. I send money home, every month, without fail. My sister’s kids, they’re doing okay, I think. She sends pictures. My niece, the little one, she just graduated high school. That’s good, right? That’s what it was for. All of it. For them. But sometimes I look at the piles of sheets, just endless, steaming hot… and I wonder, what was it for *me*? I wanted to be a teacher. Or maybe an artist, that was a silly dream, I know. But I used to draw, a lot. Little landscapes, faces. Nothing fancy. Just… something. I put it all away, back then. For this. Is that weird? To feel like you sacrificed something you never even got to choose? Like, I *had* to come here. There wasn’t really another option, was there? But still. My friends here, they’re mostly younger. They talk about going home eventually, opening a shop, getting married. I just nod along. For me, home is… different now. Like, I don’t belong there anymore, not really. And I don’t belong here either. Just… stuck in between. I guess. My mother, bless her, she says I’m doing a good thing. A WONDERFUL thing, she says. And I know she means it. But sometimes I think she doesn’t really see *me* anymore, just the money, just the help. Is that terrible to think? To feel like… I’m just a means to an end, for everyone? Even myself, kinda? I don't know. Just another night, I guess. More laundry tomorrow.