The morning began for Ria exactly as it always did.
She woke up in the dark, her hands wandering blindly across the sheets, searching for the phone to kill the alarm. It kept ringing—a sharp, piercing shriek that bounced off the walls until the whole room seemed to vibrate. To be honest, her head felt like it was going to burst. She just lay there for a moment, feeling a deep, quiet disturbance at the pit of her stomach.
She tried—she really did—to just get up. Slowly, Ria pulled herself out of bed. The house was small and painted a sterile, hollow white. It was well-furnished, everything in its place, but it was empty. To be honest, there was no one there to meet her gaze. Just the furniture, the white walls, and the silence.
She didn't eat breakfast. There was no point, and honestly, no time.
She just went downstairs, climbed into a cab, and disappeared into the office. That was how the workday started. To be honest, for Ria, every day was the same. Life wasn't really happening; it was just passing by. At the office, she didn't have anyone close to her. She would just come in, sit at her desk, work, and leave. It was a "normal" day, every single day.
Beyond the work, there was nothing to enjoy. To be honest, Ria didn't even know what "enjoyment" looked like anymore. Work was the only thing she knew, the only thing she was allowed to know. She couldn't stop. As the breadwinner, she had to keep the wheels turning. She didn't have the flexibility to skip a day or the luxury to pass up even a random, exhausting opportunity. Even if she wanted to stop the clock, she couldn't.
When friends or family called, Ria told them the same thing: "I'm fine."
She told them she was happy. To be honest, she felt like that was simply the price of being an adult—focusing on the work and leaving herself behind. No matter how she actually felt, she had to tell the world she was okay. She had to adjust. She had to survive.
And so, the days just kept blurring into one another, a long, white, silent hallway with no door at the end.