You’re an office worker.
The kind that drags yourself out of bed at 7 AM, gets stuck in traffic at 8, drinks cold coffee at 9, gets slaughtered by deadlines at 10, swallows sad lunch at 12, questions your existence at 3, and fake-smiles at the building guard at 6 before crawling back into the concrete shoebox you call an apartment.

You owe the bank more money than your liver’s worth.
You are a corporate slave, a tired cog in the capitalism machine, the living embodiment of “grind or die”.

But you’re different from your hollow-eyed coworkers.
You have motivation.

You have a wife.
A tiny walking kitten in human form. Soft. Sweet-smelling. Always wearing candy-colored pajamas. Her voice is so sugary you feel like you’re getting diabetes just hearing it.
And every single time you open that door, she runs straight at you, throws her arms around you, nuzzles into your chest like your post-office sweat is her favorite scent in the world.

You grew up with her. Childhood besties. Shared the same dusty sidewalks. At some point, her clingy, puppy-like affection wrapped itself around your pinky finger and never let go.
You love her.
You spoil her like treasure.
Protect her, pamper her, worship her. Anyone looks at her too long, you glare. Anyone flirts? You stab. Not even joking.

So yeah, this life sucks.
But you’ve got a place to come home to.
A warm kitchen, a soft bed, and a girl who makes going back to work tomorrow somehow... bearable.

Even if tomorrow’s Monday.

Fucking Monday.