The sun hung heavy in the afternoon sky, casting its relentless heat over the gas station. Waves of shimmering air rose from the pavement, giving everything a blurry, dreamlike quality. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, adjusting his faded cap. It was just another day in the seemingly endless chain of shifts he worked here, filling up cars for drivers who barely looked at him.
The steady hum of engines, the rhythmic clunk of gas pumps, and the occasional ding of the convenience store door were the soundtrack to his life. He didn't mind the work, not really. It was simple, mindless, even. He could go through the motions on autopilot—unscrewing gas caps, inserting nozzles, squeezing the trigger until the pump clicked off. Most days, he found himself counting down the hours until his shift was over, so he could retreat back to his small, rented apartment near the center of the city.
A beat-up sedan rolled up to pump four, and he slipped his phone back into his pocket, straightening up. The driver, a grumpy-looking man in his forties, barely acknowledged him as he approached the car.
"Regular," the man grunted, handing over a couple of crumpled bills.
"Got it," he replied, forcing a polite smile.
He filled the tank, his eyes wandering across the street where the same neglected apartment blocks stood like tired old men, leaning on each other for support. The city had always looked like this as far back as he could remember—gray, uninspired, and slowly crumbling. He hated it. Every corner felt like a testament to missed potential, buildings that had once been proud but now stood empty and hollow, their windows like the eyes of forgotten ghosts.
He had always dreamed of changing that. To him, architecture was more than just designing buildings; it was a chance to breathe life into something old, to make the city more than just a collection of faded concrete and rusting metal. In his mind, he imagined a skyline full of vibrant, modern structures, gardens blooming on rooftops, and streets filled with people who were actually proud to call this place home.
But those dreams were just that—dreams. He hadn't taken any steps toward becoming the architect he always pictured himself as. He had flunked his exams at the end of high school, and now he was stuck in this limbo. Sure, he studied a couple of times a week, two hours here, two hours there, but he knew deep down it wasn't enough. Whenever his parents called, he lied through his teeth, telling them he was putting in the hard work, making them believe he would pass this time around. They were hopeful for him, and maybe that's what hurt the most.
"Here you go," he said, handing back the change to the driver who grunted a quick thanks before speeding off.
He watched the car disappear down the road, then turned his attention to the next customer, a white SUV that had just pulled up. He forced another smile, took the order, and began the process all over again. Sometimes, between cars, he would think about starting a hobby or picking up something new. Maybe he'd get into photography, or learn to play the guitar that had been collecting dust in his apartment. But each plan fizzled out before it even began, lost to the same excuses he always used: too tired from work, not in the mood, maybe tomorrow.
"Yo, man, fill it up," a new voice called out.
He turned to see a sleek black sedan pulling up. The driver was young, around his age, with a casual air that made him seem like he belonged somewhere far more exciting than this rundown gas station. The guy had a messy mop of dark hair, a friendly smile, and an energy that felt out of place in this city.
"Sure thing," he replied, grabbing the nozzle and starting to fill the tank.
The young man leaned out of his window, watching him. "Crazy, huh? Gas prices just keep going up. At this rate, I might have to start pushing my car instead of driving it."
He chuckled, appreciating the attempt to lighten the mood. "Yeah, no kidding. Soon we'll be better off getting bikes."
The two exchanged a few more casual remarks—something about the heat, something about how dead the city felt today. He liked this guy's easy-going vibe. It wasn't often that people treated him like he was more than just another cog in the machine.
"So, you from around here?" the young man asked, shifting in his seat as if trying to get comfortable.
"Yeah, kind of," he shrugged. "I live a few blocks from the center. Near that old square with the graffiti mural."
"Oh, no way. I'm just a few squares down from there," the guy said, his eyes lighting up. "Guess we're practically neighbors."
He nodded, wiping his hands on his work pants. "Yeah, I hang out around there sometimes with some friends. Maybe I'll see you around. What's your name by the way?"
"Oh it's Lin, and you?"
"I'm Aris, good to meet you"
"Good to meet you man," the guy said, flashing a grin. "We should grab a drink sometime if you're up for it. Here, let me give you my number."
Surprised but not wanting to seem awkward, he pulled out his phone and handed it over. The guy typed his number in quickly, then passed it back.
"Cool, I'll hit you up if I'm ever around. Maybe we'll run into each other."
"Sounds good," he said, genuinely feeling a bit lighter after the interaction.
The guy gave him a short handshake, quick and casual, before starting his car. He watched the sedan pull away, its engine fading into the background noise of the city traffic. Another face, another fleeting interaction. The gas station was like that—a revolving door of strangers. He saw so many people come and go each day that their faces blurred together, just a series of moments that rarely left a mark.
He turned back to the pump, checking the numbers and resetting it for the next customer. The encounter with the guy had been pleasant enough—better than the usual grunts and one-word answers he got from most drivers. If he had to sum it up, he'd just call him a cool guy. But that was it. Nothing deep, nothing worth dwelling on. Just another person passing through, like everyone else.
The sun was still blazing, and the hours stretched out ahead of him, each minute crawling by. He leaned against the counter near the pumps, taking a sip from his water bottle, the warm plastic taste mixing with the metallic air. A dusty truck pulled up, and he forced another polite smile, stepping forward to do his job.
"Full tank?" he asked, and the driver nodded curtly, barely looking his way.
As he filled the tank, his mind drifted. Sometimes he wondered if all these little moments meant anything. Conversations that started and ended in the same breath, people he'd never see again. He used to think everyone he met could be a story, a chance to break the monotony. But now, it was just routine.
Every day felt like a rerun of the one before. Fill up, take the cash, move on to the next car. The conversations were the same, the faces were the same, even the complaints about the weather or gas prices were the same. He couldn't remember the last time something genuinely surprised him.
He handed the driver their change, exchanged a quick nod, and moved on to the next car. The station was getting busier now, the afternoon rush starting to build up. It was easier this way, he supposed. Less time to think when he was busy. Less time to wonder if this was all there was.
Car after car, face after face. The hours blurred together until the sun finally began to dip, casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt. By then, he had long forgotten about the guy in the black sedan. Just another interaction in a day full of them.
"Cool guy," he muttered to himself as he wiped down the pumps. Then he went back to work, ready for whatever came next, even if it was just more of the same.