I keep checking their numbers. 2am, refreshing the dashboard on my phone. My store, we hit targets again. Eight months straight. Even beat last month by almost three grand. That should feel good, right? My dad, he’d just nod. *Shukran, khalas.* Good enough. But then I see theirs. The sister branch. Down again. Two points below forecast. Fourth week in a row. It’s like a punch to the gut every single time. My stomach clenches, real pain. I know it’s stupid. It’s not my branch. It’s not my fault. My team, we bust ass. Six days a week, pushing the seasonal promo, stacking those displays exactly like corporate wants. I talk to customers, I coach the new hires, I clean up spills myself. Everything. But seeing their red numbers… it feels like *my* failure. Like I’m not doing enough, even when I am. My cousin, he manages a branch in Sharjah, he calls me, asking how I do it. He thinks I’m some kind of genius. I tell him the same things my uncle told me when I was still in school: *Work harder. Don't stop. Don't look back.* My parents, they sent me here so I could do better. So I wouldn't have to struggle like they did. So I could make something big. And I *am* doing it. But then I see those other numbers, the ones that aren't mine, and it’s like a phantom limb ache. A constant reminder that someone, somewhere, is falling behind. And that means *we* are falling behind. And it's never enough. Never.