The Day I Decided Not to Quit

By: Muhammad Arif

I don’t remember the exact date. Only that it was a Tuesday. Cold. Quiet. And a little too still.

The kind of day where even the air feels heavy, like it's pressing down on your chest.

I was sitting on a worn-out plastic chair in a half-empty room. The walls had seen better days, covered in peeling paint and silence. My phone was in my hand, but there were no notifications. No missed calls. No new messages. Just… nothing.

That kind of silence gets into your bones.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to laugh louder. Dream bigger. Walk taller.

But life has a funny way of testing you when you least expect it.

I had come to the city chasing something. Not fame or money—but peace. A job. A purpose. A chance to rewrite the story I was born into. My hometown didn’t offer much. Just dust, broken promises, and a list of people who said, “You’ll never make it.”

So, I left.

But the city didn’t welcome me with open arms. It made me earn every moment. Some nights I slept hungry. Some mornings I woke up doubting everything. There were jobs that promised payment but never paid. People who promised help but disappeared when I needed them most.

And that Tuesday, I was ready to give up.

I had 40 riyals left in my pocket. Rent was overdue. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in two days. The job I had applied for didn’t call back. My CV felt useless. My skills felt unneeded. And I felt invisible.

I opened WhatsApp, hoping for something—anything.

There was a voice note from my little sister.

“Bhai, Mama says she misses you. I miss you too. When are you coming home?”

That was it.

Just a short message from a world that felt a lifetime away. But something about it hit me hard.

They still believed in me.

I sat there for a long time. I didn’t cry—I was too tired to. But I thought about how many times I had said, "Just one more day."

And how many times one more day had turned into a week… a month… a year.

I thought about the small victories I had forgotten to celebrate.

The day I got my first part-time job washing dishes.

The time I fixed my roommate’s torn jacket with just a needle and thread.

The burger I made that a customer said was the “best they ever had.”

I had value.

Even if the world didn’t always see it.

So, I stood up.

I took a deep breath. Brushed the dust off my pants.

And I walked out that door with no guarantee—just a little more courage than I had the day before.

That same afternoon, I passed a burger shop I’d never noticed before. The sign said “Help Wanted.”

I walked in and asked if they were still hiring.

The man behind the counter looked me over. Asked me if I knew how to make a burger.

I smiled. “Not just make one—make it taste like home.”

He laughed and handed me an apron. “Trial starts now.”

And just like that, something shifted.

It wasn’t a dream job. It wasn’t a miracle.

But it was something.

That night, I ate for the first time in two days. I messaged my sister back. I told her I was okay. I wasn’t, not completely—but I was trying.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is not quit.

Not because it’s easy. Not because you’re sure it’ll work out.

But because someone out there is waiting to hear you say, “I’m still trying.”

That Tuesday didn’t break me.

It built me.

And today—months later—I’m not rich. I don’t live in a big house.

But I have regular meals. A job I’m proud of. People who ask for me by name when they order.

And a little more peace in my heart.

The story isn’t finished.

But I’m still here.

Still writing it.

One day at a time.