Everyone has a limit—the question is whether you'll recognize yours before you hit it, or after.
Week four began with an email from his mother.
Subject: Ethan, we need to talk
Sweetheart,
I just saw that you transferred $700 into my account. That's more than a third of your monthly stipend.
I told you not to do this. I told you to focus on yourself, on your experience, on eating actual food and not destroying yourself to support us.
We don't need this money. We're managing fine. I'm working full-time. Lily's working part-time. Vanessa has been helping with groceries when we need it (and before you get upset about that—I let her because SHE offered and because she's practically family at this point).
Please, please stop sending money home. Use it for yourself. Eat real meals. Take the shuttle instead of the bus. Do something fun occasionally. You're 21 years old and you're living in Silicon Valley for the summer—you should be having experiences, not just surviving.
I'm serious about this. If you send money home again, I'm sending it back.
I love you. Take care of yourself.
Mom
Ethan read the email three times.
His first instinct was defensiveness—she didn't understand, he was fine, this was his choice.
But underneath the defensiveness was shame.
Because she was right.
He'd promised her he wouldn't do this. He'd looked her in the eye and promised he'd take care of himself.
And he was breaking that promise.
He typed a response.
Mom,
I'm sorry. You're right. I won't send money home again unless it's an actual emergency.
I'm eating enough. I'm fine. Don't worry about me.
Love you.
Ethan
Two lies in four sentences.
He wasn't eating enough.
He wasn't fine.
But he hit send anyway.
Tuesday afternoon, Team Seven had a problem.
The screen reader prototype had a bug—something in Ethan's backend code that was causing intermittent crashes when processing complex web pages.
They'd spent four hours trying to track it down, and Ethan's head was pounding.
"Let's take a break," Maya suggested. "We're just going in circles at this point."
"No, I can figure this out—" Ethan stared at his screen, the code blurring together.
"Ethan, you look exhausted. When's the last time you slept?"
"I slept."
"How much?"
"Enough."
"That's not an answer." Maya closed her laptop. "Seriously, take a break. Go get some food, drink some water, take a walk. You're not going to solve this by staring at the screen until you pass out."
"I'm not going to pass out—"
"You literally swayed when you stood up ten minutes ago. I saw you grab the desk."
Had he? Ethan didn't remember.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you don't know what 'fine' actually means." Maya's voice softened. "Look, I'm not trying to be your mom. But you're on my team, and I need you functional. So please—take care of yourself. Okay?"
"Okay."
But as soon as Maya left, Ethan went back to the code.
He had to figure this out. Had to prove he belonged here. Had to show that he was worth the opportunity.
An hour later, David found him still at his desk.
"Dude. Everyone else went home. It's 8:30."
Ethan looked at the clock in surprise. "What?"
"It's 8:30. You missed the last convenient bus. The next one's not for another hour."
"Shit."
"I'm driving home. I can give you a ride."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm offering. Come on. You look like you're about to fall over."
In David's car—a nice Honda that Ethan would never be able to afford—they drove in silence for a while.
Then David spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"Doing what?"
"Working until you collapse. Skipping meals. Taking the bus even though it adds two hours to your day. Isolating yourself from everyone." David glanced at him. "Marcus thinks you're just antisocial. James thinks you're a workaholic. But I think something else is going on."
Ethan was quiet.
"You don't have to tell me," David continued. "But Ethan, whatever it is—this internship isn't worth destroying yourself over. No job is."
"I'm not destroying myself—"
"You've lost at least ten pounds since you got here. You look exhausted all the time. You're working twelve-hour days and then going home to work more. That's not sustainable."
"It's only for three months."
"And then what? You go back to school and collapse? Burn out? Develop actual health problems?" David pulled into the parking lot of their apartment complex. "Look, I don't know your situation. Maybe you've got reasons for all of this. But I'm just saying—you're allowed to be human. You're allowed to struggle. You're allowed to ask for help."
"I don't need help."
"Okay." David put the car in park. "But if you change your mind, offer stands."
That night's call with Vanessa started badly.
"You look terrible," were her first words.
"Nice to see you too."
"I'm serious, Ethan. You look like you haven't slept in a week. And you're so thin. Are you eating?"
"Yes, I'm eating."
"Enough?"
"Enough to survive, which is what matters."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm just—" Ethan rubbed his eyes. "I'm tired, okay? It's been a long day."
"It's been a long month. And you're not taking care of yourself."
"How do you know?"
"Because I can see you, Ethan. And I can hear it in your voice. And your mother told me you sent $700 home even though she specifically told you not to."
Ethan felt anger flash through him. "She told you about that?"
"Yes. Because she's worried about you. We all are."
"Well, don't be. I'm fine."
"Stop saying you're fine when you're clearly not!"
"What do you want me to say, Vanessa? That I'm struggling? That I'm tired and lonely and barely keeping my head above water? Will that make you feel better?"
"No! But at least it would be honest! At least I'd know what's actually going on instead of watching you pretend everything's perfect when you're obviously falling apart!"
"I'm not falling apart—"
"Yes, you are! And you won't let anyone help you because you're too proud or too stubborn or too—" She stopped, tears in her eyes. "I'm three thousand miles away and I can't do anything except watch you destroy yourself. Do you know how helpless that feels?"
"You think I don't feel helpless? You're there dealing with my family, my responsibilities, all the things I should be handling. And I'm here in Silicon Valley pretending I belong, pretending I can afford this, pretending I'm not completely out of my depth—"
"You're not out of your depth! You earned that internship! You're brilliant and talented and you deserve to be there!"
"Then why do I feel like a fraud?" The words burst out before Ethan could stop them. "Why do I feel like everyone else belongs and I'm just—pretending? Like any second they're going to figure out I'm not actually good enough and send me home?"
Vanessa's expression softened. "Oh, Ethan."
"My roommates are from MIT and Stanford and Carnegie Mellon. My team lead bought $187 worth of groceries without blinking. Everyone goes out to dinner and drinks and events like it's nothing. And I'm counting pennies and taking two-hour bus rides and eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch because that's all I can afford." His voice cracked. "I don't belong here, Vanessa. I'm just a poor kid from Silverbrook pretending to fit in."
"That's not true—"
"Isn't it? You've never had to worry about money. You don't know what it's like to look at a menu and calculate whether you can afford to eat. You don't know what it's like to watch everyone else live normally while you're just—surviving."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"You're right," Vanessa said finally, her voice small. "I don't know what that's like. I've never had to worry about money. I've never had to choose between eating and saving. And I'm sorry I don't understand that struggle."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"No, you're right. There are things about your life I'll never fully understand because I haven't lived them." She wiped her eyes. "But Ethan, that doesn't mean you have to go through this alone. That doesn't mean you can't tell me when you're struggling."
"I don't want you to think I'm weak—"
"Struggling doesn't make you weak! Asking for help doesn't make you weak! Admitting you're in pain doesn't make you weak!" Her voice rose. "What makes you weak is suffering in silence until you break. And you're so close to breaking, Ethan. I can see it."
"I'm fine—"
"Stop! Stop saying you're fine!" Vanessa was crying now. "You're not fine! You're starving yourself and overworking yourself and lying to everyone including me about how you're doing! That's not fine! That's self-destruction!"
"What do you want me to do? Come home? Quit?"
"I want you to eat real food! I want you to sleep eight hours! I want you to stop trying to save everyone else and save yourself for once!"
They stared at each other through their screens, both crying, both exhausted.
"I don't know how to do that," Ethan said quietly. "I don't know how to not take care of everyone else. It's all I've done since I was fourteen."
"Then you need to learn. Because this isn't sustainable. You're going to make yourself sick, or hurt yourself, or—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"I'll try. I promise. I'll try to do better."
"Okay." Vanessa wiped her eyes. "And Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"Use your mom's emergency money. That's what it's for. Emergencies. And starving yourself counts as an emergency."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can. Please. For me. Use the money. Eat real food. Take the shuttle. Stop punishing yourself."
"Okay. I'll try."
After they hung up, Ethan sat in the dark for a long time.
He'd just had his first real fight with Vanessa.
He'd admitted things he'd been hiding for weeks.
And somehow, instead of feeling worse, he felt... lighter.
Like maybe keeping everything inside had been heavier than he realized.
Wednesday morning, Ethan did something he hadn't done since arriving in California.
He took the company shuttle to work.
It cost $7 each way—$14 total—but it cut his commute from two hours to forty-five minutes.
He arrived at work feeling less exhausted than usual.
At lunch, when the team went to the cafeteria, he got a full meal instead of just coffee and a muffin.
"Look who's eating like a normal human," Marcus commented.
"Shut up," Ethan said, but he was smiling.
That afternoon, Maya pulled him aside.
"I figured out the bug. It was in the text parsing module—there was a memory leak when processing certain Unicode characters."
"How did you—I spent hours on that yesterday."
"Fresh eyes. And also, I wasn't half-asleep." Maya grinned. "You look better today, by the way. Less zombie-like."
"Thanks, I think?"
"It's a compliment. Trust me." She paused. "Hey, a few of us are getting dinner Friday. Just pizza and a movie at someone's apartment. Nothing fancy. You should come."
Ethan's first instinct was to say no.
But Vanessa's words echoed in his head: Stop isolating yourself.
"Okay. Yeah. I'll come."
"Really?" Maya looked surprised. "You're actually saying yes?"
"Don't make me change my mind."
"I won't! This is great. You'll actually get to know people instead of being the mysterious loner guy."
"Is that what people think I am?"
"Little bit, yeah."
After Maya left, Ethan sat at his desk and felt something unfamiliar: hope.
Maybe he could do this.
Maybe he could have the full experience—work hard, make friends, build relationships—without destroying himself.
Maybe he could be human instead of just surviving.
It was worth trying.