The Mirror of Maybe

Life, as I knew it, had become a storm I could no longer outrun. Every breath I took felt heavier than the last — the kind of weight you feel when everything around you starts to collapse, one piece at a time. My debts were skyrocketing by the minute, and the dreams I once carried like a badge of honour had become distant echoes. I wasn't just losing control; I was losing myself.

Each morning felt heavier than the one before it. I couldn't remember the last time I woke up excited or hopeful. I jumped from one job to the next, barely surviving off crumbs while others seemed to thrive. There was nothing fulfilling about the endless cycle of clocking in and out, only to remain broke and broken. The saddest part? I once dreamed big. I graduated top of my class. The golden boy. The one meant to "make it" has now become an epitomy of failure.

Facing my mother became a silent tragedy. Every glance from her eyes pierced deeper than words could. Her disappointment was never voiced, but it screamed in the silence between us. And then, there was Rihanat. Beautiful, ambitious, independent, and full of light. She stood by me through storms I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. With her promising job at a top advertising agency, she could've chosen anyone. But she chose me. A man clawing his way through life, barely surviving. And that only made it worse. I felt like a fraud, a leech for that matter.

This wasn't the life I envisioned. Not after burning the midnight candles in the university, not after all the sacrifices I made. I had become the very thing I swore I'd never be—a burden.

People laugh at me now. They mask it with polite smiles, but I see it—the ridicule. "The genius turned ghost." I was still young, still strong, but I couldn't shake off the haunting question—why was my future dissolving before my very eyes? Why was everything I touched turning to dust?

If life has taught me anything, it's that a normal life is the hardest thing to achieve. Marriage, kids, a warm home—luxuries I couldn't even afford to dream of anymore.

Maybe it all began the day I lost my father. I was five, too young to understand, yet old enough to remember. He died chasing one of his crazy adventures — always exploring, always pushing boundaries. Even at a young age, I admired his energy and his zeal. He was kind, generous to a fault, always extending help to strangers even when we were struggling ourselves. He became my idol. He was my hero, my mirror, the man I swore I'd become. I wanted to be like him—but better. I wanted the wealth he never had, so I could make an impact without dragging my family down with me.

Years flew by. After hundreds of job applications and countless rejections, I finally landed an interview with the very company I had admired since university. My heart raced as I sat in front of the interview panel, my hands clammy, my back stiff with tension.

"You graduated top of your class," one of the interviewers asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, I did," I replied with conviction.

"But… you never studied abroad," another said, clearly unimpressed.

"And all you did was juggle part-time jobs after graduation?"

The words hit harder than expected. My jaw clenched. He didn't know what I had gone through.

"He must've been desperate," another chimed in,

"Listing every little job he ever did… What a waste of intelligence."

My throat dried. I wanted to scream at that moment, to explain to them about the huddles and shades that life threw at me. But what could I say? That I worked three jobs just to afford rent? That I couldn't afford unpaid internships abroad? That surviving itself had been a full-time job?

But then, the third interviewer spoke, his voice calm yet commanding.

"I know why he listed all those jobs," he said.

"To show tenacity. Persistence. Grit."

He leaned forward, then smiled — a rare, approving kind of smile.

"And you did. Despite everything, you kept going. You earned certificates, you worked, and you survived. That says more than any foreign degree ever could. That tells me you know how to build yourself."

Those words… they cracked open something inside me. Finally, someone saw me. I nodded, overwhelmed, and nearly broke down. That moment felt like the first light at the end of a tunnel I'd been crawling through for years

I walked out with an offer letter. It felt like life was finally, turning around the corner. I called no one. Not even my mother, not Rihanat. I wanted to make sure it was real — that it wasn't another cruel joke.

But hope, like everything else in my life, was short-lived.

To clear my debt, I had invested all my life savings—every last penny from my part-time jobs—into a stock I believed was solid. I watched forums, read articles and all looked like a golden ticket.

And then… it vanished. The website disappeared. The contact lines went dead. I refreshed the app again and again, praying it was a glitch, but It wasn't. My money was gone into thin air. I could not behold what was happening, as to why things take different turn when ever it comes to me. I did not want to give in to such injustice and I pledged to do whatever it takes to get back every penny that was rightfully mine.

So, I stormed the premises of the scammers, demanding for answers. I lost control, and I was blinded by rage. I wanted justice, but instead, I was arrested, detained and treated like a criminal for reacting to being scammed. I begged law enforcement to act, but all I got were blank stares and shrugged shoulders. And the scammer? Free. Untouched. And me? Humiliated. That was then I realized the law was not there to protect or provide justice to the vulnurable, but rather to protect those with power, those with money, regardless of whatever wrong doings they do. I was surely done.

Despite the new job, nothing made sense anymore. What good is a salary when the mountain of debt looms like Everest? The fire inside me flickered again—dim, dying. I dragged my feet home, barely aware of my surroundings.

And then I saw her, Rihanat.

She stepped out of a sleek, black Porsche. The man behind the wheel wore a smug grin, polished shoes, and the air of success surrounded him. She laughed—lightly, easily while they hugged and said their goodbyes.

My heart stopped, and my soul almost abandoned me. She looked perfect. Yes, they looked perfect together. My gut twisted.

"You were right all along," it whispered. You're not good enough.

With all these whispers in my ears, I tried to keep it cool then I walked towards her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, surprised on seeing me.

"Had a business around," I muttered. And just as I turned to leave.

"Wait…," she said, handing me an envelope.

"…I know you skipped your shift for the interview. This is for your upkeep." She said to me.

I took it, slowly. Then, out of pain and jealousy, I asked the question I shouldn't have:

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No!..." she said sharply, her voice tightened.

But the damage was done. In that moment, I felt like nothing but dead weight in her life. She deserved the world. And I could barely offer her a door handle.

"Why don't you try working even harder?" she said, her voice trembling.

My eyes flared. "Harder? What do you think I've been doing all this time! Killing myself, and still nothing works!"

She flinched, with tears welling up in her eyes. I had never seen her that vulnerable, but I was done. With everything, with us.

"This… isn't working," I said, turning my back on her. "You deserve better."

I left her standing there—confused, hurt, and helpless. And I walked home, only to find the final blow waiting for me.

My belongings—scattered outside in the rain. Wet, ruined, discarded like garbage. I stared at them, my heart numb. I didn't even have the strength to cry. It was then I knew: This life wasn't mine to live.

I stood there, soaked to the bone, while the world moved on. I had reached the edge. The edge no one talks about. The edge where hope fades into nothing, and pain becomes background noise. I walked back, not knowing if I would ever take another step forward. But then something strange happened.

An old woman—someone I barely recognized from the building—handed me a plastic chair to sit on and affirmed to me,

"You've come too far to let it end like this. Dry off first."

Just that. A plastic chair, a stranger's kindness, and somehow, it kept me alive for one more hour.

And then another.

Maybe… just maybe… it's not over yet.