Dear Diary (saturday, May 16) 2

I pause for a moment, wondering if I’m really that hungry. But my stomach quickly reminds me: I’m starving, and if I don’t eat within the next fifteen minutes, I might collapse.

I grab a plate from the cupboard, some slices of bread, and peanut butter. I hope it’ll hold me over until I can cook a more filling meal.

I finish eating—still weak, but at least a little better. I take the meat out of the fridge. I had defrosted it the night before and put it back in to keep it cool. That’s when Elhoïme walks into the kitchen.

“I got it, I’ll take care of it. Go rest,” he says, his eyes full of worry.

I hate when he looks at me like that. He’s growing up too fast—way too fast. I don’t like it, even though, let’s be honest, he’s always been more mature than other kids his age, even before our parents died.

“Aww, how sweet—you’re worried about your big sister? Stop it and go finish your homework. You’ve got an exam tomorrow.”

I pull some carrots out of the fridge. I refuse to look him in the eye. I won’t let him see the sadness, because when I’m sad, he cries—and if he cries, then I’ll completely fall apart.

“No! It’s 5:30 p.m., and you’re getting up at 10 p.m. to get ready, because you leave at 11 for your next job. Prepping the meat, the sauce, and the rice is going to take you at least five hours. You need to rest! Seriously, look at yourself: you look like a zombie, your hair’s a mess, you’ve got soot everywhere, you’re pale enough to melt a ghost, and don’t even get me started on those dark circles under your eyes.”

I lower my gaze, a little ashamed. He’s right—I really do look like a walking ghost. But how can I tell him I have no choice? That I can’t slow down—not now. Not while they’re counting on me.

“I know, I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “But I have to keep going. For you.”

Elhoïme sighs and steps closer. He places a light hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t have to carry it all on your own, you know. We’re here. We can help.”

I wish I could believe him. Really. But fear tightens around my throat—the fear that if I let my guard down, everything will collapse.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “But tonight, just let me try to do this, okay?”

He nods, reluctantly.

“Okay. But tomorrow, we talk about this. Promise.”

I give him a tired but sincere smile—one that hides a world of fear and courage.

I take a deep breath and get to work. The kitchen soon fills with the sound of the pan sizzling, the smell of rice cooking. And despite everything, for a brief moment, I feel a little less alone.

I put the food on the table and watch my brothers eat with appetite. It’s 10 p.m., I haven’t had time to rest, my body feels heavy, my eyes burn, and I have a pounding headache. But it’s time to get ready. I’ll catch a short one-hour nap on the bus on my way to work. So, without complaining, I get up, clear the table, ask my brothers to wash up, brush their teeth, and head to bed. Then I start getting ready myself.

The night will be long—and with that thought, I leave the apartment to head to my first job.