Help, I’m Stuck in Love with My Boss

The evening sky hung low like an old sheet painted with the remnants of orange. A battered minibus rattled slowly down a narrow street on the outskirts of Bekasi, dust swirling in the fading light. Inside, Alya sat still, her face pale and eyes weighed down by chronic fatigue. Her fingers clutched a worn-out bag on her lap; inside, one packet of generic medicine and a thin envelope containing her just-received salary. But her thoughts weren’t inside the bus. They wandered to the sound of her mother’s cough at home, to the cracked walls and the ceiling that leaked when rain poured. To the piles of laundry and the musty smell that never left. To dreams that had been buried before they ever had the chance to grow. # The old wooden door creaked softly as it was pushed open. The rusted hinges cried out into the dusk air, a familiar groan—like a moan long ignored. Soft footsteps touched the cold concrete floor. The air inside carried the scent of damp wood, stale herbal medicine, and a faint trace of smoke from the kitchen. “Mom, I’m home,” the words came gently from Alya’s throat. Hoarse, like they got caught between exhaustion and a longing she never allowed to fully blossom. But there was still tenderness woven into her voice—a lingering trace of affection that refused to die, no matter how often it was pushed away. In the corner of the room, near a small window clouded by dust, lay an aging figure on a thin mattress. Her mother’s body seemed even smaller now, as though time itself had whittled her down. Her white hair was pinned up haphazardly, her face lined and dry, but her eyes—ah, they were still sharp. Still like they were years ago, when Alya was ten and scolded for crying too loudly. Her mother turned halfway, eyes narrowing. “Don’t pretend to care,” she hissed, quiet but piercing. “I told you, I don’t need those stupid pills. If I’m going to die, then let me die.” Alya didn’t answer immediately. She lowered her gaze, slipped the bag off her shoulder, and placed it gently by the wall. The sound of the zipper echoed in the quiet room. Without a word, she walked to the kitchen. The kerosene stove still radiated a faint warmth from the thermos beside it. Alya lifted the small pot covered in cloth. The porridge inside was still warm, simple with rice and a bit of chicken broth she had made before leaving for work that morning. With mechanical movements, she poured the porridge into a bowl, filled a cloudy plastic cup with warm water, and returned to her mother’s room. Each step carried a tangled weight in her chest—exhaustion, guilt, anger, and a stubborn kind of love. “Mom… please eat something,” her voice was softer now, almost a plea. She set the bowl on the small table beside the mattress. “You can take your medicine after this. I know it’s bitter, but—” Her mother sneered slightly, bitterly. “You think I live just to take orders from my own child?” she spat toward the floor, though only air came out. “If your father hadn’t died first, our lives wouldn’t be like this. You’re just a reminder of failure.” The words struck like a hammer. Not loud, but precise—and repeated. Alya remained silent. Her expression didn’t change. She sat in the corner of the room, on a wobbly plastic chair, head bowed toward the floor. Her hand gripped the edge of her gray work skirt, fingers trembling ever so slightly. She was used to this. But being used to something doesn’t mean you’re immune to it. Her chest felt heavy, as if a stone had been placed upon it, slowly pressing down with every word her mother uttered. Yet there was no anger in her face. Only weariness. And something deeper—a sorrow that no longer knew where to go. She didn’t reply. Not because she agreed with her mother. But because she knew—fighting back would only reopen the same wound, again and again. And in that small room, beneath the twilight slipping through a foggy window, the two of them were trapped in a long silence—a silence filled with love that didn’t know how to express itself, and wounds that had never truly healed. # The sky changed. Orange faded to deep purple, then was slowly replaced by darkness. The hanging lamp in the living room was turned on. A dull yellow glow cast somber shadows on the bare brick walls. Her mother started coughing again—loud, harsh, and long—before ending in a painful wheeze. Alya rushed to support the frail body, helping her drink water slowly. “Why do you keep coming home?” her mother snapped in between breaths. “Go work! Make more money. How long do you think we can live like this, huh?” Alya looked at her mother for a long time. “I do work, Mom. I work until my body can’t tell Monday from Sunday anymore.” “And what do you have to show for it?! This house? This mattress? These cheap meds?” Alya lowered her head. Her heart beat slowly, each thump dull and distant. Her mother’s voice pierced like fine needles—not enough to tear skin, but enough to break something inside. She walked to the kitchen and opened the small fridge, which was more often empty than not. She turned on the faucet, washing the dishes from her mother’s earlier meal. The water was cold, though the day itself wasn’t. Among the trickle of water, her mind whispered: “I never asked to be born a savior. But who else is there, if not me?” She wanted to scream. But the house was too small for anger. Any emotion would only bounce back and hit her harder. Twilight had disappeared. Night fell slowly, like a thin blanket that couldn’t keep the cold away. Outside, the sound of a passing train. Inside, the lazy hum of an old fan. Her mother had fallen asleep. Her face looked more peaceful in slumber, like a woman who once loved with all her heart and now only knew how to endure. Alya sat in the corner, her back against the cold wall. She opened her bag and took out a small beige notebook. Inside were brief journal entries—never meant for anyone else to read. Today’s page read: “Today, I didn’t give up. Tomorrow, I’ll try again.” Her hand trembled. A single tear fell silently onto the paper. There was no music. No theatrics. Just a quiet cry. Just a voice from deep within her chest that no one else could ever write. She stared at the dim desk lamp. Its light was faint, but not yet extinguished. Much like herself. She knew tomorrow would be just as heavy. There would be more medicine refused, more tiring work, and a face that had to stay kind even when her heart was falling apart. But tonight, she allowed herself to be fragile. Because strength doesn’t mean never crying. It means choosing to rise—even when tomorrow promises no miracle. The house remained small. Life remained bitter. But Alya was still there. Still breathing. Still trying. And for a woman like her, that was already more than enough to be called a struggle.