Izaan stepped into the convenience store, the chime of the tiny bell above the door ringing faintly as the cool blast of air conditioning wrapped around him. It was afternoon, yet the store was nearly empty. An elderly cashier sat at the counter, absorbed in his crossword puzzle.
"Sorry," Izaan said softly, approaching the counter with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his old jacket. "I'm a bit late."
The cashier didn't lift his head. Still, Izaan's words seemed to stir an invisible tension in the air. He wasn't late—he had arrived right on time. But apologizing had become second nature to him. Always.
Eventually, the cashier looked up, raised an eyebrow, and said, "You're on time, kid. No need to apologize."
Izaan gave a faint smile and nodded. "Yeah. Right. Thank you."
It wasn't that he didn't know. He did. He knew he was on time. But still… he couldn't stop himself. The apologies always slipped out. A constant fear lingered within him—that someone, somewhere, would find a reason to blame him for something. Even when there was nothing to be blamed for. His life had folded itself into these quiet moments—moments filled with apologies spoken without reason.
Another chime sounded as a woman entered the store, casually browsing the shelves. Izaan tensed immediately. Was he in her way? Had he done something wrong? The woman ignored him, but that didn't matter. He stepped back quietly, murmuring a soft "sorry" under his breath, and refocused on his task.
He left the store and walked toward his next job—a small café where he worked as a waiter. Just like his other jobs, this one didn't bring him much joy. It was just routine, just survival. His heart wasn't in it, but he knew that for now, this was what kept him going.
As soon as he entered the café, Izaan slipped into his uniform and began his shift. A customer asked for a menu, and Izaan quickly handed it over, then headed to the next table with a tray of tea and soup orders. As he balanced the tray, he thought—maybe, if he kept working hard enough, someday he'd build something out of his life.
He was just about to reach a table when he noticed the customer engrossed in a loud phone conversation. The man was completely distracted. Izaan moved carefully, lifting the bowl of soup, hoping to serve it without disturbing him.
But at that moment, the man suddenly stood up—and Izaan bumped into him. The soup bowl slipped from his hands and spilled all over the man's cream-colored suit.
The customer yelled into the phone, "What the hell! Can't you see?" Then he turned his furious gaze to Izaan. "You spilled the soup! Do you even know how to do your job?"
Startled, Izaan quickly folded his hands in apology. "I'm sorry, sir. It wasn't my fault. I was paying attention, but you stood up so suddenly—"
The man didn't listen. His anger escalated. "My fault? You people are so useless! Do you even have any shame? You mess up and then try to blame others—"
Without warning, the customer slapped Izaan across the face.
The shock was clear in Izaan's expression, but he remained silent. And just like that, the old habit surfaced again—"I'm sorry, sir," he muttered, like it was inevitable.
The man scoffed. "Sorry? Do you think I'm an idiot? Keep your apologies and do your job!"
Izaan bowed his head. He knew this wasn't his fault. The bowl had slipped—it wasn't his mistake. But still, the only thing that felt natural was apologizing. Standing in place, head down, he wondered—why did he always have to say sorry? Even when he wasn't wrong?
Another waiter rushed over to defuse the situation. "Sorry, sir. We'll clean it up immediately."
The man huffed and rose from his chair. "I'm letting it go this time, but be careful next time. Got it?"
Izaan nodded. "Yes, sir. Sorry."
Everything happened so quickly. Izaan lowered his eyes and said nothing more. This was his way—apologizing, again and again, in every situation. Never fully understanding himself, always assuming the fault belonged to him.
Later, Izaan's shift took him to the bar—a place of flashing lights and dim corners, where music pulsed through the speakers and people danced wildly to the DJ's beat. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and fleeting happiness.
Behind the counter, Izaan stood, one hand holding a glass, the other opening a bottle. As always, he hesitated before speaking, his eyes holding a quiet exhaustion. The bar buzzed with life, but to him, it had all become routine. Pour the drinks. Smile occasionally. He knew he couldn't make much of a difference here.
A drunk man stumbled to the bar and sat down, his eyes red with intoxication. Izaan looked up but still offered a polite smile.
"What would you like, sir?" he asked softly.
"One shot," the man slurred, sinking into the seat.
Izaan filled the glass calmly, added ice, and placed it before him.
"What's this?" the man suddenly snapped. "Tastes like water!"
Caught off guard, Izaan replied gently, "I'm sorry, sir, if it's not to your liking. Would you like something else?"
"You think I'm stupid?" the man shouted. "Did you ever learn how to pour a drink? What kind of bartender are you?"
Izaan lowered his gaze again. "I'm sorry, sir. I just wanted to serve you properly."
The man stood, fists clenched, towering over Izaan. "Do you ever try to be better?"
This time, Izaan looked at him—calm, cold eyes meeting the drunken fury. And then, again, the familiar motion—he bowed his head. "Sorry, sir. I'll do better."
People around the bar glanced toward them, but Izaan didn't care. He was used to this. Eventually, the man took his drink and walked away, muttering under his breath, "Better get it right next time."
Izaan stood still as the music picked up again, the bar returning to its rhythm—dancing, singing, lights flashing in every direction. He took a deep breath and leaned into the corner, eyes distant. The same hollow look lingered on his face. Somehow, he knew this cycle would never end.
After his shift, exhausted and dragging his worn-out shoes, Izaan walked through the quiet streets. Each step felt heavy, as if his own weight was pulling him down. He was trying to escape this endless chain of apologies, but each step seemed to pull him deeper into darkness. His face looked blank—like a barren field where all the crops had withered and hope had vanished.
He stopped near a bridge. His eyes drifted to the water below, reflecting the soft glow of the moon and the shimmer of nearby buildings. The ripples glimmered in the light, but they didn't soothe him. Everything felt hollow—the lights, the water, the waves—they only deepened the restlessness inside him.
After a while, Izaan's eyes welled up, and he broke down. His tears flowed freely, as if finally trying to release the pain that had long been trapped within.
Through his sobs, he asked himself, "Why am I like this? Why do I always apologize, even when I've done nothing wrong? My whole life has been one long string of sorrys, and still… nothing changes."
His voice carried only the echo of silence and the ache of unspoken sorrow.
To be continued…