As soon as John stepped into the supermarket, the scent of fresh produce and the faint hum of the air conditioning greeted him. However, what truly caught his attention was the stern look from the elderly woman standing at the cashier stand.
Ms. Marie.
Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back into a neat bun, and she wore her usual floral blouse with a beige cardigan. Despite her small stature, she had an imposing presence, especially when she frowned like she was doing now.
Her sharp eyes flickered to the clock above the entrance. John followed her gaze, grimacing when he realized he was late.
John sighed internally.
"Here we go again."
John: Good afternoon, Ms Marie.
Ms Marie: Johnathan. If you keep this up, I might just cut down your salary.
John chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head.
John: I'm sorry ma'am. I'll try and do better.
Ms. Marie let out a short huff before smirking.
Ms Marie: I'm just messing with you, my boy. Go on and get changed. Then get to work.
John: (smiles) Right! I'll be back in a second!
Without wasting any time, he headed to the back room, where he quickly changed into his red polo shirt—the store's uniform. The supermarket's logo was printed neatly on the left side of his chest, the fabric slightly worn from months of wear.
He rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked back to the checkout counter
By the time he stepped back to the front, Ms. Marie had already settled into her usual spot at the corner near the counter, watching him with mild amusement.
Ms Marie: So how's school going, kiddo?
John: Same as always. Boring lectures, teachers piling on homework. Nothing exciting.
Ms Marie: Your generation has it easy. Back in my day, not everyone could afford school fees. You're lucky to be getting an education. I wonder…(she looked around the store absentmindedly)... if my life would've been different if I had gone to school. Maybe I'd be somewhere better than this.
John glanced at her. There was something in her voice—regret, maybe?
John: But it's not like what you have here is a bad thing, Ms. Marie. Running a small business is impressive on its own. You don't necessarily need a degree to be successful.
Ms. Marie scoffed but smirked at his words.
Ms Marie: Maybe so, but I still think getting a degree is the best move.
John gave a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to argue and a comfortable silence followed. The air conditioner hummed softly, filling the store with a cool breeze.
Then, after a few minutes, Ms. Marie spoke again.
Ms Marie: So, I gotta ask you something, kiddo.
John: What is it, ma'am?
Ms Marie: You're in Year 3 of high school, right?
John: Yes ma'am.
Ms Marie: Which means you'll be graduating next year?
John nodded.
Ms Marie: Have you thought about what you want to do after you graduate? What do you want to be?
John froze.
The question caught him off guard, and as the seconds passed, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks—he hadn't thought that far ahead. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
John: I… I don't know yet.
******
The store wasn't particularly busy at the moment, so John took the chance to pull out his phone. He played a few rounds of Train Surfer before switching to Twibbler, scrolling through posts absentmindedly.
A notification popped up.
It was a message from Rachel.
Popstargirl:
[Hey, so Ivan & Joseph told me you already left for your after-school job. Kinda messed up that you just took off without saying anything to me. You've been looking down all day, and I've been stressing over it this whole time. Do you know how frustrating it is to see you like that and not even get a chance to help? At least talk to me about it instead of shutting me out like this.]
John exhaled sharply. Rachel.
She had always been the closest person to him for as long as he could remember, but sometimes her persistence was exhausting. She hated when he shut her out. But what could he do?
John: (muttering under his breath) What am I going to do with you, Rachel?
With a sigh, he began typing his response.
Gamerboy115:
[I get that you're worried, and I appreciate that, but I just needed some space. I wasn't trying to shut you out—I just had a lot on my mind and wasn't ready to talk about it. I'll reach out when I am, but I need you to respect that, okay?]
The message sent.
He barely had time to put his phone down before another notification popped up.
John: That fast?
Popstargirl:
[You've said that a thousand times already. When are you ever going to open up to me? I already know everything so isn't it easy for you to just talk to me?]
John clenched his jaw.
John stared at the message, feeling a pang of guilt. She was right—he had said this before. He had made promises he never kept, told her he would talk when he was ready, only to avoid the conversation altogether. But the truth was, even if he did open up, Rachel would never understand.
No one would.
And even if she tried, she'd only get hurt in the process
John: (to himself, frustrated) But telling her the truth after constantly lying to her would be worse, wouldn't it?
Before he could dwell on it further, a customer approached the counter, and he quickly pocketed his phone.
John: (to himself) I'll reply later.
****
It was now 9:40 PM, and closing time had finally arrived. The quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of cleaning supplies lingered in the empty supermarket. Normally, Ms. Marie, the store manager, would have let John leave around 7 PM like the other employees, but John always chose to stay late—until 9 PM, sometimes even later.
As he stepped outside, the night air greeted him with a cool embrace. The streets were nearly deserted, the occasional flickering streetlamp casting elongated shadows along the pavement. Ms. Marie stood by the entrance, locking up for the night, her bicycle leaning against the wall beside her.
John glanced up at the sky, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. The city lights drowned out most of the stars, leaving only a handful visible through the haze.
John (to himself): After all, home isn't exactly a cozy place I want to rush to.
Ms. Marie turned the key with a satisfying click before grabbing her bike. As she adjusted the straps on her bag, she gave John a warm but tired smile.
Ms. Marie: "Goodnight, kiddo. See you tomorrow."
John: "Goodnight, Ms. Marie."
He watched as she mounted her bicycle and rode off, disappearing around the corner at the end of the street. He envied her in a way—having a place to return to that likely felt like home. Not just a space to exist in, but an actual home.
With a quiet sigh, John turned on his heels and began the long walk back to his apartment. The streets were eerily silent, the distant sounds of traffic barely reaching his ears. As he approached his neighborhood, he noticed the small ramen shop on his street was still open. The warm glow of the store's lights and the rich aroma of broth drifting into the night air were too tempting to resist.
A bowl of ramen wouldn't fix everything, but it was something.
Stepping inside, he ordered a bowl and waited at the counter, his fingers drumming against the surface absentmindedly. The owner, an elderly man who had been running the shop for years, handed him his order with a knowing nod, as if sensing that John had no real desire to return home.
Shop Owner: "Late night again, huh?"
John (forcing a small smile): "Yeah. Something like that."
With his ramen in hand, he made his way back home, dragging his feet slightly as he neared the old, run-down apartment complex. By the time he reached his door, the clock on his phone read 10:05 PM.
Just as he reached for the handle, his body tensed.
From inside the apartment, muffled moans filled the air, filtering through the thin walls like an unwanted presence.
John's expression darkened.
John (to himself): She's at it again.
Irritation flared in his chest, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. He had no energy left to be angry. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his earpieces, and plugged them into his phone. His fingers quickly tapped at the screen, scrolling through his playlist before blasting music into his ears—loud enough to drown out everything else.
With the world muffled by the pounding bass and lyrics, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment was the same as it always was—a disaster zone. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn carelessly across the floor, the faint stench of alcohol clinging to the air like an unwanted guest. The only difference was that the breakfast he had left on the table that morning was now gone.
John (to himself): She probably ate it after I left.
His stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the gnawing exhaustion of living in this environment. He barely gave the rest of the apartment a glance before making a beeline for his bedroom.
The moment he stepped inside, he locked the door behind him.
Finally.
Safe—at least as much as he could be in this place.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped onto his bed, placing the ramen container on the small, cluttered desk beside him. His laptop sat open, the glow of the screen illuminating the dimly lit room. He clicked on a random UTube video, hoping to distract himself while eating.
But even with the music blaring in his ears and the video playing, the muffled sounds from the other room still seeped through the walls.
It was unbearable.
He pressed his fingers against his temple, willing himself to ignore it.
At that moment, his phone buzzed.
A notification from Twibbler.
He glanced at the screen, noticing a message from Rachel—the same one she had sent earlier. The message lingered in his notifications, waiting for a response.
She had told him to open up to her.
For a moment, just a fleeting second, he considered it. The weight of everything—the suffocating loneliness, the frustration, the constant need to pretend he was fine—it almost made him want to tell her. To just type out a single message and let someone in.
But then he remembered.
He remembered why he kept quiet.
Why he never let anyone in.
Because no one could understand this. Not really.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard before typing a short response.
Gamerboy115: [It's not.]
He hit send. That was enough. That problem was dealt with.
But the other problem?
The one that surrounded him in this broken apartment, filling the air with reminders of how sickening his home life was?
That problem remained.
John exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment before reopening them.
John (to himself): I need to get out of this house.
And maybe—just maybe—he would find a way to make that happen.
******
The noise finally died down around 12:13 AM. The muffled sounds that had tormented him for the past two hours had finally faded, leaving behind an eerie silence that settled over the dimly lit apartment.
John let out a slow breath, his body still tense as he lay on his mattress, phone in hand. He had spent the last couple of hours scrolling mindlessly through Twibbler, liking posts he barely read, engaging in heated discussions about Warfare, and doing everything he could to distract himself. Anything was better than acknowledging the reality of his surroundings.
He glanced at the time on his screen and sighed.
John: Guess it's time for me to hit the sack.
Just as he was about to put his phone down, he heard something unexpected.
A voice.
His mother's voice.
"John."
His body went rigid. His breath hitched.
His stomach twisted into knots. He hadn't expected this. Usually, after her nightly activities, she either passed out drunk or ignored his existence altogether.
His grip on his phone slipped, and it tumbled onto the mattress before bouncing onto the floor.
"Shit."
John's heartbeat quickened. He didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He didn't even breathe. If he stayed still long enough, maybe she'd think he was asleep and leave.
The doorknob rattled as she tried to open it, only to be met with resistance.
It was locked.
Thank God.
John clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes on the faint glow of his phone screen, his pulse pounding in his ears. Seconds stretched into eternity.
Then, as suddenly as she had come, she left. The sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into silence once again.
Only when he was certain she was gone did he finally exhale, his muscles loosening. He ran a hand down his face, swiping away the sweat that had formed on his brow. His fingers trembled slightly.
What the hell was that about?
He shook his head and reached for his phone, relieved to see that it hadn't cracked from the fall. As he adjusted his grip, a new post on his Twibbler feed caught his eye.
It A username he had never seen before.
Twibbler Account: Lonelygirl4556
Followers: 10
The post read:
"Silent Weight"
I open my mouth, but words feel weak,
No voice can shape the pain I speak.
They listen, yet they never hear,
Their comfort is distant, insincere.
So I just smile and hide the ache.
0 likes, 0 reposts, 0 comments.
John read it once. Then twice.
Each word seeped into him like ink spreading through water, sinking deep into places he had locked away.
A pressure built in his chest, an aching warmth that he couldn't quite describe.
And then—before he could stop it—tears welled in his eyes.
His vision blurred.
A quiet sob slipped from his lips, and he quickly covered his mouth, horrified by his own reaction.
He never cried. Not anymore.
So why now?
The answer came as swiftly as the question.
Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't alone.
This person—this girl, whoever she was—she understood.