What is life? Is it something to be cherished? Or a punishment for the sins we commit?
People see life differently.
The rich believe it's simple—waking up to a lavish breakfast, stepping into luxury cars, enjoying the ease money brings. To them, life is beautiful.
But ask the poor, and you'll hear a different story.
For them, life is a struggle. Walking miles under the scorching sun, working tirelessly with nothing to show for it. Justice? That belongs to those who can afford it. The rich always win—because they have the means to rewrite the rules.
Maybe both views are true.
My name is Laura. I'm the girl in the beautiful dress standing alone at the bus stop.
From the outside, I look like I have it all. But here's the truth—I'm broke.
I'm a photographer, living paycheck to paycheck.
And as they say, every adventure has a beginning.
This is mine.
You might be wondering why I look so serious.
Well, here's what happened.
I was hired by a couple to shoot their wedding party. Like any professional, I knew arriving on time was key—especially when you're broke and clinging to every opportunity like it's your last lifeline.
I showed up early, ready to hustle. Rent was due, and my bills were piling up like a Jenga tower on the verge of collapse. So, I gave it my all—snapping from every angle, capturing smiles, tears, awkward dance moves—everything.
When the shoot ended, I headed straight to the studio to develop the photos. No rest. No break. Just focus. I needed to impress.
Once the prints were ready, I made my way to their apartment to deliver them—and, of course, to ask for my check.
I thought I did everything right.
But I was wrong.
I arrived at the apartment and knocked on the door.
To my surprise, it wasn't Mr. Lee who answered—but his wife.
From the second she opened the door, I could tell: this woman wasn't going to be friendly. There was a sharp coldness in her eyes—like she'd already decided she hated me.
Wife: What do you want?
Laura: I'm here to deliver the wedding photos to Mr. Lee. Is he home?
She gave me a strange, icy stare that made my heart skip.
Wife: He's my husband. Are you his mistress?
The accusation hit me like a slap.
Laura: No. It's strictly professional.
Wife: Good for you.
I handed her the envelope with the hard copies. She flipped through the photos, scanning them like she was searching for an excuse. I stood there, nervous but calm—until she sneered.
Wife: Is this all you could produce as a so-called professional photographer? This is trash. Even a child could do better.
My stomach dropped. But I stood my ground.
Laura: Madam, I put in my best. These are high-quality, professionally edited shots.
Wife: (mocking laugh) These? Don't make me laugh.
Laura: Regardless, I've done my job. I'd like to be paid. Time is money, and I don't work for free.
Wife: Indeed.
Then, without warning, she shoved the photos back—smacking them against my chest so hard they scattered.
Wife: Paid? For this horror show? You'll get nothing. I don't want to see even your shadow on my doorstep again. Now leave—before I call security.
And with that, she slammed the door in my face.
I stood frozen, stunned. Slowly, I bent down and gathered the photos one by one.
There weren't enough words to describe the humiliation I felt.
But I swallowed my pride… and walked away.
My mind was a mess.
Thoughts raced and crashed into each other like waves in a storm. I couldn't even think straight.
That's why I looked so serious at the bus stop.
When the bus finally arrived, I stepped on without a word. Humiliated, disgraced… but still holding my composure like a mask I couldn't afford to drop.
I plugged in my headphones and hit play. The music helped, just enough to dull the sting in my chest. My eyes fluttered. I nearly drifted off—until I heard a voice.
Stranger: Can I sit with you?