I’m sitting here, 2 AM again, in the back room of what’s supposed to be my dream. My bakery. It smells like stale sugar and anxiety. The ovens are cold. The mixers are silent. Outside, the streetlights cast long, lonely shadows on the empty sidewalk. Not a single car passes. Just the hum of the fridge, keeping my unbought dough perfectly chill. For what, though? For who? My hands… they’re covered in flour, like always. But it’s not from kneading bread today. It’s from wiping sweat off my face, then touching everything, then forgetting. I baked two dozen croissants this morning. And six sourdoughs. A dozen pain au chocolat. Everything perfect. Golden brown, flaky, exactly like the pictures in those fancy cookbooks. I spent *months* perfecting these recipes. Weeks learning from that old French dude online, Monsieur Dubois, who shouted at his webcam if your lamination wasn’t perfect. He’d be so disappointed in the sales. We opened three weeks ago. My abuela, she loaned me her retirement money. All of it. Her life savings. “Para tu futuro, mi amor,” she said, her eyes so full of pride they actually watered a little. My parents chipped in too. Not as much, but enough to make me feel the weight. The weight of *their* hopes. Their belief in me. This isn't just about me failing, it’s about taking everything they worked for and just… poof. Gone. The first day was okay. A lot of friends came. Family. My cousin’s best friend even bought a whole cake. Everyone said it was delicious. “Best sourdough EVER,” my uncle boomed, crumbs flying. I smiled. I almost cried, actually, because it felt REAL. Like, this is it. This is happening. People are going to love this place. This is what I’m meant to do. But then... the second day. And the third. And now it’s been three weeks. I open at 7 AM. I see maybe… five customers? On a good day, maybe eight. And half of them are just getting a coffee, not even a pastry. I stand behind the counter, my smile frozen, my stomach in knots. I watch the clock. I watch the door. I watch the street. Empty. Always empty. It’s like a desert out there. Where ARE people? Don’t they like good bread anymore? Or is my bread just… not good enough? I keep running numbers in my head. Rent is due in two weeks. Utilities. Ingredient costs. My poor abuela’s money… it’s just dwindling. Every time I open the register and see maybe forty bucks in there, my heart just sinks. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I wake up every morning with that specific dread. That cold clench in my chest. *Today is the day it turns around*. And then it doesn’t. I don’t even know what to tell my family. My mom calls, "How’s business, *mija*?" and I just say, "Oh, busy! Really good, actually. Had a rush this morning!" A lie. A total, bald-faced lie. I hate myself for it. But what am I supposed to say? "Mom, I’m bankrupting Abuela and you guys in six months flat, probably less, because no one wants my damn croissants?" No. I can’t. Not yet. Not while there’s still… this faint, stupid hope. I try everything. Flyers. Instagram posts. I even stood outside for an hour yesterday handing out free samples. A few people took them, nodded politely. No one came in to buy anything. One guy, he bit into a cinnamon roll, said “Hmm, not bad,” and then walked away. *Not bad*. That’s my dream. That’s my life’s work. “Not bad.” It’s like a punch to the gut. What do you even DO with "not bad"? I look at other bakeries online. They're always packed. People lining up around the block. What's their secret? Is it the location? Is it some magical marketing I'm missing? Or am I just… fundamentally flawed? Like, maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I should have just kept my old job, the freelance design gigs, even though they drove me crazy with the late payments and the endless revisions. At least then I knew where my next ramen noodle budget was coming from. Now? Ahora, it’s just… a black hole. I give it six months. That’s what I told myself. Six months to make it work. To turn this around. If not… then I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I’ll have to sell everything. And then tell my abuela. Tell her I failed. That her last legacy went up in smoke. The thought of it… it’s not even a feeling anymore. It’s just this dull ache. This blankness. Like my brain is trying to protect me by not letting me feel the full horror of it. But it’s there. Underneath the flour dust and the cold ovens and the silent street. It’s definitely there.