I’m sitting in the dark right now watching my dad’s oxygen machine hiss and I just want to put my head through a fucking wall. I have spent ten years counting every single cent. Ten years of generic beans, shitty thrift store sweaters, and saying no to every single beer after work because my dad’s meds cost more than my goddamn rent. I pride myself on it. I’m the "minimalist" guy. The frugal one. Whatever. But really, I’m just the guy who makes sure everyone else survives while I slowly disappear. My whole life is just a series of sacrifices for people who can't even remember my birthday half the time because they’re too busy needing me to wipe their chin or pay the electric bill. Then I land this associate gig at the firm. Big leagues, right? Except I walk in and I’m a goddamn ghost. Everyone there smells like old money and expensive leather. They talk about "pieces" and "collections" and horology like it’s a fucking religion. My boss, Miller, looked at my wrist—I was wearing a plastic ten-dollar Casio—and he didn't even say anything, he just gave this little smirk. This tiny, condescending twitch of the lip. Like he knew I didn't belong. Like he could smell the hospital soap and the cheap laundry detergent on me from across the mahogany desk. It got inside my head and it stayed there like a parasite. So I did it. I went to the boutique on my lunch break. I felt like a criminal just walking through the door, like the security guard knew I had a negative balance in my soul. I bought the Patek. Twelve thousand dollars. Twelve. Thousand. Fucking. Dollars. That is a year of home nursing. That is the new furnace we’ve been needing for three winters. But when I strapped it on and walked back into that office, I felt… invisible in the right way. No one looked down. I sat in the meeting and adjusted my cuff just so they’d see the gold catch the light and for forty-five minutes I wasn't the guy who spends his weekends changing soiled bedsheets. I was a peer. Now I’m back here. 2 AM. Dad’s snoring and the bill is sitting on my phone screen like a goddamn death warrant. I cannot afford this. I literally cannot pay the mortgage next month because of a circle of metal on my wrist. I’m supposed to be the responsible one. The rock. The one who handles the shit so everyone else stays afloat. And I blew it all because I wanted a bunch of overprivileged assholes to think I was born with a silver spoon instead of a plastic one. I look at this watch and I don't see craftsmanship or "heritage." I see my dad’s missed appointments. I see my own pathetic, desperate stupidity. I tried to take it off five minutes ago but my hands were shaking too hard to work the clasp. It’s like it’s fused to my skin. I’m a fraud in a twelve-thousand dollar costume and the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that I know I’m going to wear it again tomorrow. I’m going to go back in there, smile at Miller, talk about the "movement," and then come home and eat cold soup over the sink while I figure out which credit card to max out so the power doesn't get shut off.