Helium

    2 AM. I’m staring at my computer screen, rewriting the same work report for the 17th time. My coffee’s gone cold, and the lipstick stain on the cup looks like a sad smile. The office is quiet except for the buzzing lights and my keyboard clicks. Another rejected project. Another rock rolling back down the hill. They say hard work pays off, but my life feels like a broken vending machine—I keep putting in coins, but nothing comes out. My coworker joked last week: “This pizza slice is my overtime pay, this soda is my rent, and this napkin? That’s my future plans.” We laughed, but it hurt.     Everyone’s running the same race. Wake up, work, check emails, sleep, repeat. My phone’s full of reminders: “Finish presentation,” “Call the doctor,” “Gym at 7.” But the gym’s been closed for months, and my yoga mat’s collecting dust. It’s like being hungry at a buffet—everything’s right there, but I’m too tired to reach.     Last Tuesday, it rained so hard I hid in ...