I’d just gotten dumped over text. On my lunch break. In the middle of a Tuesday.

There was this kid set up near the 8th Avenue platform—little desk, two stools, and a cardboard sign that said: EMOTIONAL ADVICE – $2.

I laughed. But something in me said, why not. I handed him two bucks and sat down.

He looked at me dead serious and said, “Okay. What’s heavy right now?”

I told him everything. Not the messy details, just enough to get the heartbreak across.

He nodded like he’d heard it all before. Then he said, “Do you feel like you messed up, or like you lost something good?”

I blinked.

He goes, “’Cause those are different. One you can fix. The other you just have to heal from.”

I stared at him like he was a tiny Yoda in sneakers.

Then he added, “But either way, you still wake up tomorrow. That part doesn’t change. It’s how I got over my turtle dying.”

I let out a small laugh, and he grinned, proud of that last part. “He was my best friend,” he added with a shrug. “But I still had school the next day. So I just kept showing up.”

Something about that hit harder than I expected.

I thanked him, genuinely, and stood up to leave. He waved at me like we were old friends. I walked up the subway steps with a weird lightness in my chest.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. Do you feel like you messed up, or like you lost something good?

The thing was, I didn’t know.

Her name was Lena. We were together for two and a half years. Lived together for one. She used to leave me sticky notes in the fridge, like “Don’t eat this, it’s my sad cheese,” or “You’re cute, don’t forget.” But we hadn’t been like us for a while.

Still, the breakup felt like a rug pulled out from under me.

The next day, I walked past that station again. Part of me hoped he’d be there. But the kid was gone. Just an empty corner and some gum wrappers blowing around.

The week after, I asked around. A guy selling churros told me the kid only came once in a while, “when he felt like it.” No set schedule. Just popped up with his little desk like a tiny therapist genie.

But I kept checking.

And in the meantime, I started paying attention to my own thoughts. I wasn’t spiraling like I usually did after a breakup. Something about that kid’s words made me pause before reacting.

I started noticing how often I used people’s love as a mirror for my own worth. That if someone left, I panicked—not because they were gone, but because it made me feel like I disappeared too.

It was weird, having that realization because of a kid who looked like he still got gold stars for good behavior.

One day, I saw him again.

Same desk. Same sign. He was eating what looked like a bagel with too much cream cheese.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked up, squinting. “You were sad about your girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend now,” I corrected.

He nodded, like that was the natural order of things. “You better now?”

I sat down and slid two dollars across the desk. “Still working on it.”

He nodded seriously. “You’re not supposed to be fixed in a week.”

I chuckled. “You got a lot of life behind you or something?”

“My mom says I’ve been an old man since preschool,” he said. “I once told my teacher she was wasting her potential.”

I laughed out loud. “You did not.”

“She was working on her screenplay during snack time. I thought she needed a push.”

I don’t know what possessed me, but I found myself telling him more this time. Not just about Lena, but about how I felt stuck in general. How I was thirty-three, working a job I didn’t love, living in a one-bedroom that had mold in the bathroom ceiling. How I used to have dreams but now just had Netflix autoplay.

He didn’t interrupt once.

Then he asked, “If you had a do-over button, what’s the first thing you’d undo?”

I thought about it.

“My fear,” I said. “I’ve let fear run the show for too long.”

He nodded slowly. “Fear’s tricky. Grownups make it look like planning.”

I blinked.

“That was… actually kind of brilliant.”

He gave a modest shrug and went back to chewing his bagel.

Before I left, he said, “You should write all that down. You might forget what you just said in a few days.”

I did write it down. That night. And then I just… kept writing. Not poems or anything fancy. Just small truths that came up. Some ugly, some hopeful. Like how I missed Lena, but I missed being in love even more. Or how I used to doodle logos for fake companies when I was ten and wanted to start a design firm.

One of those nights, I found my old sketchbook in a box under my bed.

It had a drawing of a fox holding a paintbrush with the caption: “FoxFrame Creative.”

I stared at that drawing for a long time.

The next day at work, my boss yelled at me for a slide being the wrong shade of blue. That night, I stayed up until 3am making a website mockup for “FoxFrame Creative.” I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I had to do something.

Weeks passed. I saw the subway kid once more. This time, he had a new sign: EMOTIONAL ADVICE – $5. Inflation, I guess.

“Business booming?” I asked, handing over a five.

“Some lady tried to pay me with a muffin,” he said. “I told her, emotional labor deserves money.”

I nodded like I was talking to a union rep.

This time, he didn’t ask what was heavy. He just asked, “What are you doing that makes you nervous and excited at the same time?”

I told him about the website. The logo. That I’d reached out to a small business near my place to offer them free branding work, just to get my name out there.

He smiled. “That means you’re alive.”

“Feels like I’m walking a tightrope with no net.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But now at least you’re on the rope.”

That line stayed with me.

A few months later, I got laid off.

It was abrupt, impersonal, and happened on a Friday afternoon via Zoom. I thought I’d panic, but I didn’t. I’d already made a few connections with local bakeries and one music school that needed a rebrand.

I took the severance, gave myself one day to sulk, then got to work.

I never saw the subway kid again after that.

I asked around a few times, even described him to the churro guy, but no one had seen him lately.

Sometimes I wonder if he was real. If I imagined him during a low moment. But then I remember I still have the notebook where I scribbled the first thing he said to me. It’s stained with coffee and bent in the corners, but I keep it by my bed.

FoxFrame Creative turned into a real thing. I work from home now, or from this café on Myrtle Ave that lets me stay too long as long as I tip well. I’ve got five regular clients and just hired someone part-time last month.

As for Lena—we bumped into each other once outside a bookstore. She was with someone else. I smiled, genuinely. She did too. It didn’t ache like I thought it would.

I didn’t “win” the breakup. I didn’t suddenly glow up or get a six-pack or date a model.

But I found myself again. Not the version she fell for, not the version my parents hoped for—but the quiet, curious, creative kid who drew logos and believed in possibilities.

And somehow, a 10-year-old with a folding chair and a Sharpie helped me get there.

So, here’s what I’ll say—if you ever see a kid offering emotional advice in the subway, pay him. Sit down. Listen.

He might just remind you who you are.

And if life ever feels like it’s crumbling, ask yourself:

Did you mess up? Or did you lose something good?

Because one you can fix. And the other you just have to heal from.

Either way, you still wake up tomorrow.

That part doesn’t change.

If this story made you feel something, share it. Maybe someone else out there needs their own $2 wisdom too. ❤️