I arrived here two years ago. I immigrated here on a work visa from Bangladesh. I left to better my life and start something new; I was all in. No one in my family had ever lived here before, in the land of opportunity, so I felt as if I owed it to them to make something of myself. It was difficult, at first, adjusting to life here, with so much going on—a perpetual wave of decisions. Despite this, I was able to land a job at a local copy center, the night shift of a 24-hour store. It wasn't much, and the nights were long and heavy, but it paid for me to live here; it funded my one-story apartment, my bike—the very clothes on my back were there because of that job. And so I worked every night from 10pm to 6am, a solid 8-hour shift.

Sometimes an older woman would come in during my shift. It was pretty frequent that she did, usually three or four times a week; she was a regular. She was kind to me, always smiling, and asked how I was doing, which was a rare thing. Every time she came in, she was always printing the same things: job applications, resumes, cover letters, and everything needed to apply for a job. So, one day, I asked if she'd had any luck finding a job. She looked up at me and let out a chuckle, the copier quietly humming from across the room.

"Unfortunately not." She looked away, almost shamefully. "People don't want to hire someone they can't quite place—my accent, my last name, the way I pause to think before I speak. They say they value diversity, but they only want someone who look like them." I understood exactly what she was going through; it had taken me a month to find this job. I offered her my condolences and told her that I had immigrated here, so I had also experienced her struggle. As I told her this, I could see her body loosen up, relaxing for the first time in a while—she had found someone who really understood her. 

"How'd you land this job, then?" She asked. It was a fair question, one that I had no answer to beyond sheer luck, so I told her just that. Just then, another man walked into the store and approached the counter. He handed me a poster of his missing cat, a cute tabby named Cecilia, and asked if I had seen her. I told him I hadn't, and he reluctantly withdrew the poster off the counter, defeated. He then approached the woman and asked her the same question, to which she also said no. The man sighed, folded the paper reluctantly, and placed it into his jacket. He thanked us and softly turned away, opening the door and stepping into the cool night. He left a poster of his cat in the store window. The bell above the door shook faintly, and for a moment after he left, neither of us spoke. The woman watched the door for a long second before turning back to me. "Everyone's searching for something, huh?" She said almost to herself. I nodded, unsure of how to respond or if she even wanted a response. Maybe she was right, I thought. Maybe we are all chasing something. It could be a job, a lifestyle, or a person; everyone has to want something. "Searching for a job isn't easy, you know. I'm just so tired." The woman continued, looking up at me. "Long, dreary days, filled with hard work for no reward. I still don't even have a job." I could only nod at her words, but I could tell she didn't care; she just needed someone to listen to her. "You know, I used to believe that hard work pays off, that if I worked hard enough, for long enough, things would change, and my life would get better. All I've wanted is stability: a roof above me and food to eat, but now I just live in my car." While the woman was speaking, I realized I believed hard work would get me somewhere; it had to. I wanted to believe that this woman was just unlucky. All I could say to her was that I was sorry. She smiled, replied with a kind thank you, and left. 

It was a couple of weeks until I saw the woman again. Her words stuck with me while she was away; I spent my nights mulling them over in my mind. The nights began to feel longer, not harder, just longer—an endless cycle of monotonous work. In the woman's absence, I began to notice more and more so-called regulars. A college student printing an essay, a frantic man printing an eviction notice, and a lawyer printing her court briefings after work. They were all chasing something. As for the man with the missing cat, he never came back. The only thing I had to remember him by was the poster he left in the window, which was fading fast. The cat's face was barely visible anymore. Its corners had begun curling up. I liked to think he found his little Cecilia, but as time passed, I grew less and less optimistic.

It was a rainy night in December the next time I saw the woman. It had been just over a month since the last time I saw her, and yet so little had changed in my life. She, however, looked older, as if years had passed. She looked exhausted; her face was droopy, her head hung low, and her feet shuffled below her. She was thinner too and damp from the rain. She walked to a copier, ignorant of me behind the counter. I silently watched her. This time, she printed just a single piece of paper. As she waited for the paper to print, she looked up and saw me. She smiled. I asked her why I hadn't seen her in so long. "I've been living farther away, trying to save some gas since it's so damn expensive." Her paper slipped into the holding tray, ready to be picked up. "How have you been?" She asked. I told her the honest truth: better. Nothing had changed since the last time I'd seen her, but it certainly didn't get any better. The nights were still long, days short. Rent was up, paychecks down, and fewer hours. I concluded by asking her the same question. "I've been...fine, just fine." She responded, her smile faded. "Still no job, but I'm trying'." With that, she picked up her single piece of paper and left.

In the next few weeks, the paychecks continued to dwindle, along with the hours. I was only working from 12am to 6am now, an insubstantial 6-hour shift. One night I was reading the newspaper, as I usually did. I flipped through it, searching for something that would pique my interest; it was usually the sports section. This time, however, it was not. Buried deep in the paper, on page 6, was a short article about the death of a local woman. She had been found dead in her car the morning before. There was no apparent foul play, which led the police to deem the death a suicide, but they couldn't be certain. In the article, they referred to her as an "unemployed woman," which sat heavy in my heart. I turned the page and saw the woman from the print shop staring back at me. She was the unemployed woman. She was smiling at me, as she always did. The photo had been taken long before her death, as she looked much happier. I was stunned to see her, horrified even. I read the article over and over again, hoping to find some meaning in it all, but there was none. Her title of "unemployed woman" stuck with me. It was an accurate description, but it echoed in my brain for hours. It came to be a cruel summary of life. On my way home that morning, I passed by a billboard. It was for a local university, and it read, "Dream Big. Work Hard. Succeed." I stopped underneath it and got off my bike. Around me was an abandoned strip mall, their doors permanently shut. A homeless man laid peacefully on a bench, fast asleep. Trash rustled in the wind. It was only then that I realized the dream wasn't dead; it just wasn't meant for people like me.