The heavy silence after the shift ends

Dear Delyara, The uniform is hanging on the back of the bathroom door now, its heavy blue fabric looking stiff and empty under the bulb. I am Ali, forty-five years old, and my body feels like an old house whose beams are groaning after twelve hours on the frontline watch. Out there on the monitors and the perimeter rounds, I am the unshakeable shield—the man who handles the trespassers, logs the data, and ensures the assets are secure without a single flicker of hesitation. But here, at my desk, looking at the master branding guidelines for Maison Seifi and the thousands of letters streaming into Delyara (delyara.com), the shield drops completely. My hands are stiff, my eyes burn from the fluorescent glare, and I can finally confess how terrified I am that my youth is leaking away into someone else’s commercial property before my own creations can fly. This page is the only place where I don't have to be a fortress; I can just be a man trying to build an empire out of his own exhaustion.