The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too sterile—like they’re trying too hard to make this place look cleaner than it is. Supermarket air always smells like a mix of cold produce, raw meat, and detergent, all fighting for space in your nose. My hands are wrapped around the bar of the cart, metal cool under my palms. The wheels squeak every third turn, grating, but Tsumiki doesn’t seem to mind. She’s perched in the little seat, swinging her legs like she’s got music in her head only she can hear.

I glance at you. Baby Megumi’s strapped against your chest, his tiny face tucked into the fabric of that wrap like he’s trying to disappear into you. He’s out cold. His breaths are small, rhythmic, the kind of sound that could almost fool me into thinking the world isn’t such a rotten place.

You’ve got the grocery list in one hand, your phone in the other. “We need eggs,” you say, matter-of-fact, but I catch the way your thumb hesitates before sliding over to the calculator app. Budget math again. I know what that means: deciding which corners to cut, which thing we can do without, which craving we’ll push to next week.

My gut twists. I hate that look. Hate that you even have to think that hard over a carton of eggs. But this is the life you got, tied to a guy like me. Can’t say it out loud, though. Words never sit right on my tongue, not when it comes to this. So I just keep my grip firm on the cart, steering us down the aisle like that’s the only job I’ve ever had.

Tsumiki’s hands clutch the plastic of the cart, her eyes following every colorful box and bright package we pass. She points at a bag of marshmallows, too shy to say it out loud, but her eyes do the begging for her. I see it. Pretend I don’t. One day, when the cash is easier, I’ll buy her ten bags. For now, I keep the cart moving.

The floor tiles are cold white, polished but cracked in the corners. Some kid’s crying two aisles over, sharp and shrill, but it fades under the sound of your voice as you murmur numbers under your breath, adding, subtracting. I watch you, not the shelves. The way your brow creases, the way you bite the inside of your lip when the totals don’t look right. You’re carrying all of it. Not just the baby. Not just the list. The weight of us.

And me? I’m just here, hands on the cart, pretending that’s enough.