Samantha’s phone buzzed as she slammed the door behind her. Another notification. A new gig. She had exactly twenty minutes to get from her current job—coffee shop barista—across town to the downtown office for a freelance writing assignment.

She glanced at her watch. It was 3:15 p.m. The writing deadline was set for 4:00 p.m., but if she hurried, she might make it.

The barista shift had been slow today. She had spent most of the afternoon brewing cappuccinos and memorizing the order of her life: wake up early, work the coffee shop, rush to the next gig, get home late, repeat. She had no time for much else, but she needed the money. Freelance writing didn’t always pay on time, but bartending did. The freelance gig she had lined up was supposed to be a feature on local businesses, but lately, she'd been scrambling for anything that came her way.

Her car sat in the alley behind the coffee shop. She slipped into the driver’s seat and hit the gas, weaving through traffic like a runner sprinting toward the finish line. Her mind drifted to the stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter. Rent was due, and the freelance checks never seemed to arrive when she needed them most.

Her phone buzzed again. A ping from her gig platform. *New job available!*. She quickly scrolled and saw a request for a copywriting job—another article about local food trends. She could do that. She could do anything. But not right now.

Her car screeched to a halt in front of the downtown office building. She checked the time—3:52 p.m. “Perfect,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and darting inside. The building smelled like freshly cut carpet and expensive cologne.

Samantha knew the drill. There were clients, conference calls, and the endless deadlines. The writing assignment could be done at her desk, but the research? That required focus. Time. She barely had any of that anymore.

She sat down at the desk, opened her laptop, and saw the draft she had started the night before. Half-finished. Incomplete. She cursed under her breath and cracked her knuckles, diving into the work. It was clear that this wasn’t going to be a quick fix. Every word had to be precise, polished. She couldn’t afford another rushed job. The freelance economy was like that—constant competition. If she didn’t deliver, someone else would.

By 5:30 p.m., the article was complete. Samantha clicked “send” and felt a small surge of relief. But it didn’t last long. Her phone buzzed again. Another gig request. An email for a tutoring job—someone needed help with high school math for an hour, but she was already feeling the fatigue creeping in. She thought about it for a moment before hitting “accept.”

She grabbed her things, headed to the tutoring appointment, and tried to push out the thought of her unpaid bills. The night stretched ahead, one task after another, as she moved through the hours like a worker on a conveyor belt. No time to think about the future. She couldn’t afford it.

On her way home, she pulled over for a quick dinner from a food truck. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the paper bag. She could feel her body giving out, but there was no time for rest. There were always more gigs, more work, more promises to keep.

As the truck hummed down the quiet street, Samantha couldn't help but wonder if she would ever get off the treadmill. Or if it would keep running until she couldn't keep up anymore.