She is burning herself out.
And I am furious.
At her.
At the world that has forced her into this position. At the economic system that demands she work two jobs just to survive. At the entitled, fragile humans who sit in her daytime clinic and demand her time and energy without offering her anything in return.
At myself, for not intervening sooner.
"You are working too much," I say.
Her hands pause. "Excuse me?"
"You are exhausted. I can smell it."
She laughs. It is a short, sharp sound, devoid of humor. "Oh, you can smell it? That's great. That's really great. Thanks for pointing that out."
"I am not mocking you."
"Could've fooled me." She resumes her work, pressing harder into my shoulder blade. "Yeah, I'm tired. Welcome to being a millennial with student debt and a broken healthcare system. We're all tired."
"You should not have to work this hard."
"Well, I do. So unless you've got a magic solution to my financial problems, I'd appreciate it if you kept your observations to yourself."
I do not respond immediately. The silence stretches between us, heavy with something neither of us wants to name.
"How many clients?" I ask finally.
"What?"
"Before you arrive here. How many clients do you see?"
She sighs, her hands stilling on my shoulder. "Why does it matter?"
"Because your physical health directly impacts the quality of your work. I am not being charitable. I am being practical."
"Right. Practical." She resumes the massage, her strokes less fluid now, more aggressive. Defensive. "Three. Four if someone cancels late. Then I rush over here, do a midnight session, and try not to fall asleep on the drive home."
The rage intensifies. Four clients. Sixteen-hour days. And she is still struggling.
"That is unsustainable," I say quietly.
"Yeah, well, it's my life." Her voice cracks slightly on the last word. "It's what I have to do."
"It should not be."
"Welcome to economic reality, Cyprian. Bills don't care about what should be. They care about being paid. Landlords don't care about my wellbeing. They care about rent. The system doesn't care about any of us."
I hear the bitterness in her voice. The resignation. The bone-deep exhaustion of someone who has been fighting for survival so long they have forgotten what it feels like to simply exist.
And I recognize it. Have lived it for centuries. The desperation of someone trying to survive on terms not of their choosing.
"If you were not exhausted," I say carefully, "would you choose this work?"
She is quiet for a long moment. Her hands continue moving across my back, but the aggression has faded into something softer. More vulnerable.
"I love massage therapy," she says finally. "I love helping people feel better. But I hate doing it while I'm desperate. There's a difference."
