As Amelia and Clara walked through the makeshift camp, they noticed discarded food wrappers littering the ground. A group of refugees sat nearby, clearly unfazed by the mess they were creating. One of them shrugged as she tossed an empty can to the side. 

"Do you really have to leave this everywhere?" Amelia asked, a slight edge to her voice. The woman barely looked up, muttering something about not caring anymore. 

Amelia’s frustration deepened as they continued. Soon, they approached a scene where a few teenagers had knocked over a tent, laughing carelessly. The tent’s poles had twisted, and the fabric sagged in a heap. 

A man nearby noticed and sighed, rubbing his temples. "Every damn day," he muttered. "Can’t you kids ever respect what’s given to you?"

One of the teenagers smirked. "Why? You gonna fix it for us?”

Amelia stood frozen, watching the scene unfold, her fists clenched at her sides. She walked over to the man who had spoken, forcing a tight smile. "I’ll have someone come to fix it,” she said. Her voice came out more sharp than she intended.

He looked at her, his expression flat. "You’re just gonna keep doing everything for us, huh? Every time something breaks, you’ll pick it up?”

Amelia bit back a retort. She didn’t know how to respond. Part of her wanted to say they should be grateful another part confused on why he said that, but it was becoming clear that gratitude was slipping away, replaced by expectation. The frustration on both sides was building.

“Do you ever think about how this looks?” she finally said. “How we’re all supposed to make do in this mess together?” But even as she said the words, she felt them hollow in her mouth. The people were becoming reliant on her family’s resources—and they weren’t even pretending to hide it anymore. The realization was bitter.

Amelia and Clara walked toward the makeshift shelters after their latest trip to gather supplies. The camp had been quiet—too quiet—but as they passed a group of survivors huddled together near the tents. They overheard one of their conversation.

“I can’t even remember what it felt like to sleep in a bed,” one woman muttered bitterly. “This ground’s killing my back. I’d trade anything for a comfortable mattress, even a few hours of peace.”

Another voice joined in, tinged with jealousy, “And I bet she’s got a hot meal waiting for her. While we’re stuck here, smelling the wet earth and burning wood. She doesn’t know what it’s like to truly lose everything.”

A third man scoffed, “She’s got everything—comfort, warmth, safety. What are we? Just a charity case? Don’t pretend we’re anything more than a way for her to feel good about herself.”

Clara flinched, her eyes glancing quickly at Amelia. But Amelia’s face remained unreadable. She could hear the bitterness in their voices, the resentment growing with every word. She stole a glance at Amelia, who, for the first time, was silent. 

Amelia, on the edge from exhaustion and frustration, snapped as she cleaned up another pile of discarded food wrappers. The anger bubbling inside her couldn't be contained anymore. She barged into the tent screaming. “You’re all so ungrateful. All you do is sit here complaining—about the food, about your tents, about everything. Do you even care about what you’ve done to this place?” She gestured around at the mess, the torn tents, the broken supplies. “You trash everything, and we’re the ones left to clean up your mess. Do you think I owe you anything for that?”

Her voice trembled, but the rage was unmistakable. As she glanced around, some of the refugees exchanged glances, but none spoke up. It was as if no one cared enough to take responsibility.

Clara and her friends, hearing the raised voices, approached quickly. Clara stepped forward, looking between Amelia and the refugees. "What’s going on here?" she asked, her tone firm yet concerned.

One of the refugees, a man who had been at the center since the first wave, scoffed. "We don’t owe you anything either. You don’t get to judge us for surviving however we can. You’re not living our lives. You can’t understand what it’s like to lose everything.”

Another person nodded, “Yeah, you don’t get to come in here and throw accusations when we’re the ones who are stuck. We’re doing the best we can, and we’re just trying to survive.”

Amelia’s frustration peaked. “Survive? You mean sit around waiting for handouts? You can’t even take care of what’s been given to you.”

Clara, looking at Amelia with a mixture of worry and confusion, spoke up. "Amelia, stop. They’re doing their best."

“They’re doing their best?” Amelia’s voice cracked with disbelief. “You’re going to defend them after everything they’ve done? They’ve done nothing but complain and tear everything down. You’re excusing all of this!”

Clara’s expression hardened. “It’s hard, Am. You don’t know what they’ve been through.”

“They’ve been through hard times, but so have we. And we’re the ones trying to keep this all together. And for what? To be yelled at and treated like we’re the bad guys?” Amelia's voice shook, her anger consuming her.

Clara took a deep breath. "I know it’s frustrating, but they don’t deserve to be treated like this. They’ve lost everything, and they’re scared."

One of the refugees, a woman holding a child, crossed her arms. "You think we don’t see the way you look at us? Like we’re just problems you have to fix. We never asked for any of this. We didn’t choose this life. We’re doing the best we can with what we have."

The man across her says "We didn't have it as you rich people do. So leave us be."

Amelia looked away, feeling a sense of isolation settle over her. The line between those who had and those who had nothing was growing sharper, and the tension was impossible to ignore. The anger she had bottled up for so long began to crack, leaving her with the bitter realization that no matter how much they helped, it would never be enough. The frustration wasn’t just about the situation—it was about the people who, no matter what she did, would always find a reason to criticize her efforts.

Clara’s voice was soft but firm as she addressed the group, trying to mediate, "Look, we can figure this out, but we need to work together. We're all in this mess together. Please, let’s not make it worse."

But Amelia stood still, her mind clouded by anger. She knew she wasn’t the only one struggling, but the thought of continuing to give without ever being heard, without ever being appreciated—it felt like too much to bear. The flood of emotions swelled until she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

She turned to Clara, frustration boiling over. “They don’t care. They don’t care about us. All they do is take and take, and they won’t even say thank you. How long am I supposed to keep doing this? For people who can’t even pick up after themselves?”

Clara, looking at her friend, saw her break. The girl who wanted to help her people was no more. The harshness in Amelia’s voice made it harder to stay on her side. The seeds of division had already been planted, and the line between was growing deeper.

“Am?” Clara said, her voice gently responded. “They’re just scared. I get it, they’re angry… but they’re trying to survive. It’s not easy for any of us.”

Thoughts spiraling in her brain. She blurts out

“They don’t get it. We’re not doing this for the praise. We’re just trying to help. But they see us as the enemy now, don’t they?” 

Clara’s brow furrowed. “They don’t see you as the enemy. They’re just frustrated. They’re in survival mode.”

She looks at Amelia who's face in turning red from fury. She puts her hand on her shoulder. 

“They don’t understand,” Clara murmured. “Amelia, they don’t know what we’re doing behind the scenes. They don’t know how much you’ve given. How much your family’s given.”

Amelia turned to her, her voice rising. “Doesn’t matter. It’s never enough, is it? They’ll always want more. They’ll never see it as anything but charity.”

Clara was quiet for a long moment. She didn’t know what to say. Amelia’s words, sharp and cutting, felt like a betrayal, but they also made sense. Amelia had always been the one to give, to act with conviction. Clara responds.

"It's also not easy for them seeing all this wealth while being in the mud with all their belongs and places flooded. I get why they're so mad you are privileged in all this after all."

Amelia looks at her in disbelief. 'What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I understand they're frustration. I felt it too when I had to head back to my shared room in the center." she pauses reminiscing on the feeling, she adds "I am always grateful for you and your parents and never have I left without showing my gratitude. Yet you have to understand us too. They don't know better, Amelia. We all want what you have a good family a big house and power to change things." 

Clara looked back at the people sighing. "Even I do but Amelia, they can't see what I saw in you. A good heart. Give them time."

They stood still in the tent. It would've been silent if the baby wasn't crying by this rude awaking.

"See what you've done to my child in all this she was finally sleeping." the mother screams at Amelia.

Clara grabs Amelia's hand. "Let's go."

They walked out in silence after that, each caught in their own thoughts. Amelia couldn’t shake the feeling that the line between helping and enabling was thinner than she’d ever realized. She couldn’t ignore that the resentment was building, and if they weren’t careful, it would reach a point where it wasn’t just about survival anymore—it would be about who owed what, and to whom. 

It was a complication Amelia wasn’t sure how to navigate, but one she knew couldn’t be ignored for much longer.