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Chuck sat in his rusting Honda Civic outside a house he couldn't afford. The porch light flickered like a cruel reminder: someone else would get it. The siding was chipped, the yard a mess of dead grass, but to him, it was perfect. A door to something stable. Something his name could finally be on. The real estate app still glowed on his cracked phone screen. Pending. Again. He leaned back and stared at the roofline, trying to picture what it would feel like to pull up after work — not to someone else's rules, or a notice taped to the door, or another rent hike, but to his place. A place where he could exhale. But the bank account didn’t lie. $4,237.55 saved. He needed at least $12,000. He thought of the corners he’d cut: skipping meals to save grocery money, walking to work even in the rain, selling off his vinyl collection, pawning his grandfather’s watch, and canceling his birthday dinner plans again. People told him it was smart — "You’re being responsible." It didn’t feel smart. It felt like losing a little more of himself every month. And yet, every time he got close, something dragged him back. A flat tire. A broken molar. His brother needing help. Life knew just how to keep him a few steps from the front door. He once told himself this would only take a year. That was three years ago. Now, Chuck stared at the house like it was a window into someone else’s life — a version of him that made it. And all he could do was whisper the same thing he did every time: "Just one more month. Maybe next month will be the one." But even he didn’t believe it anymore.
