The bar had a way of swallowing you whole. Not in a dramatic, noir-film kind of way, where the protagonist drinks away his troubles with a heavy heart and a darker past. No, it was quieter than that. Subtler. Like the place was built not just to serve drinks but to absorb thoughts people didn’t want to carry home. I liked that about it. It made it easier to just… exist without having to explain anything to anyone. 

It was the kind of place that smelled like old wood and older stories. Opened in ‘77, passed down to a friend without much fuss. You could tell he wasn’t doing it for the money. No one ran a bar like this to get rich. He did it because places like this deserved to stay open. Because something about keeping a piece of history alive felt more important than chasing after whatever the hell people were chasing these days. 

I’d been coming here for a while now. Not often enough to be a regular, but enough that the bartender gave me that nod—the one that said, “You again.” Not annoyed, not welcoming. Just… acknowledging. Like he recognized the look. That I’m not here for company look. He never asked questions. Never offered small talk unless I initiated it, and I liked that about him. 

The jazz playing in the background was carefully curated, I could tell. Tonight, it was a mix of Coltrane and Mingus, with a little Bill Evans thrown in just to keep things interesting. Nothing too lively. The kind of music that fills the space without demanding attention. It matched the mood. Slow. Thoughtful. A little sad if you really listened. 

The San Miguel Pilsen was hitting just right, warming my throat and making everything feel a little softer around the edges. I wasn’t sure how many I’d had. Three? Four? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t counting. Counting meant you were keeping track, and I wasn’t trying to keep track of anything tonight. 

My phone buzzed softly on the bar. The screen lit up, and there it was—our little conversation. 

“Do you agree that I’m too idealistic and it gets in the way of doing things?” 

I don’t know why I asked. Maybe I was hoping for a different answer. Or maybe I just wanted someone—something—to tell me I wasn’t crazy for feeling like I was running in circles. 

And the reply? 

"I wouldn’t say you’re too idealistic, but I do think your ideals sometimes clash with the realities of the systems you navigate…” 

Jesus. It was like the damn thing knew me better than I knew myself. I took another drag from my cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward. Systems. Realities. That’s the thing no one tells you when you’re young and full of hope. They let you believe you can change the world if you just care enough, work hard enough, believe enough. But they don’t tell you how slow everything moves. How systems aren’t built to change easily. 

I’ve spent years pushing, pulling, trying to make a dent. Working in spaces where everyone talks about change but no one really wants to rock the boat. And when you care too much—when you really want to see things get better—you start to feel that tension. The one where your ideals push up against the walls of reality, and you can hear the damn thing groaning under the pressure. 

"That tension can be frustrating, especially when change is slow or when practical compromises feel like they dilute your goals.” 

Frustrating was putting it lightly. It was maddening. Like running on a treadmill that someone keeps speeding up just enough to make sure you never quite catch up. And the worst part? You know you can’t stop. Because if you stop, everything you fought for feels like it was for nothing. 

Another sip. The glass was lighter now, but I wasn’t ready to ask for another. Not yet. 

Balance. That’s what it always came down to. 

"Maybe the key is finding ways to balance that—figuring out when to hold your ground and when to be strategic about taking small wins that build toward bigger changes.” 

Balance. Like it was that simple. Like I could just wake up one morning and decide to balance idealism with practicality. The thing they don’t tell you is that balance feels a lot like compromise. And compromise feels a lot like losing pieces of yourself one decision at a time. 

I hated that feeling. That gnawing ache in the pit of your stomach when you know you’ve given up something important just to keep things moving. And yet… I did it. I had to. Because sometimes, the only way to move forward is to take the damn compromise and tell yourself it’s for the greater good. 

The bartender glanced my way, that quiet look of recognition again. He didn’t ask if I wanted another. He just knew. I nodded, barely, and he poured without a word. Good man. The music shifted. Something softer now. Almost apologetic. As if the playlist itself could sense the weight in the air. 

I took another drag. The ember at the tip of the cigarette glowed, and I watched it burn down, wondering if I was burning down with it. It’s funny, really. How you can fight so hard for something and still feel like you’re losing. Like the world’s moving in slow motion, and you’re the only one running. And you tell yourself it’s worth it. That the small wins matter. But some nights… some nights, you wonder if you’re just fooling yourself. 

I thought about leaving. About calling it a night and going home to that quiet, empty space that waited for me. But I wasn’t ready to face that silence. Not yet. So, I stayed. And the thoughts kept coming. I thought about walking away. About quitting. About letting it all go and finding something easier. Something that didn’t feel like dragging a boulder uphill every damn day.

But then… I remembered why I started. And that’s the cruel part. The part that keeps you tied to it even when it feels impossible. Because once you’ve seen what could be—once you’ve tasted the possibility of something better—you can’t unsee it. You can’t go back to pretending things are fine when you know they’re not. So, you keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when you’re tired. Even when you wonder if it’s worth it. Because maybe—just maybe—those small wins do add up. Maybe they’re not consolation prizes. Maybe they’re breadcrumbs leading somewhere better. Or maybe that’s just another lie we tell ourselves to keep from falling apart. 

Either way… I wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.The music shifted again. Softer now. Almost… hopeful. Like the universe was giving me a moment of grace. I let the silence settle between sips. Maybe balance wasn’t about compromise. Maybe it was about learning to live in the space between. Between what is and what could be. Between hope and heartbreak. Between holding on and letting go. 

The glass was empty again. I didn’t ask for another. For once, I let the quiet sit. And maybe… Maybe that was enough.