I like myself.
Always have.
It's the only way to make peace with the person I spend every waking second with.
I've never wasted time on self-loathing—never tore myself apart over my blunt honesty, my just-passable looks, or my realist-pessimist approach to life.
But here I am, lying on cold pavement, wincing through the pain, and questioning if I might've missed something crucial about the way things are supposed to be.
Jagged breaths escape me as I try to hold onto whatever bit of strength I have left.
It's strange, really.
I've always known exactly who I am.
So why does it feel like that certainty is slipping through my fingers?
I know I'm not the type to waste my life chasing fake connections or putting on a show. When people say, "Make a sacrifice to fit in," I hear, "Auction off what's left of your sanity for a shot at being 'normal.'"
And, call me crazy, but I've never been tempted to place that bid.
I've spent years steering clear of those endless group chats, forced hangouts, and pretense-laden social circles. Isolation was my choice, and it wasn't some tragic story of loneliness. More like…a bear deciding it's better off without the company of a dozen needy squirrels.
Solitude never nagged me to change, to be something I wasn't.
But in moments like this, lying here, bloodied and bruised, I wonder if maybe there was something I missed about the "strength in numbers" bit. Yet, even now, the thought feels hollow.
Every day, I walk those school hallways, drifting past clusters of my so-called peers. They're hunched over, echoing each other's empty laughs, hollow smiles plastered on their faces. I can see it—dark bags under their eyes, the slight slump of shoulders, and the way their voices betray them. They're all books with dog-eared pages and broken spines, hoping someone might read past the cover. But no one ever does, because everyone else is too busy figuring out how to sell their own story.
They call it "friendship," but it's really a game of who can look happiest while hiding the most. I see it for what it is—a twisted loop of validation where everyone's speaking, but no one's listening. And the irony? I hate it. Hate how it's so perfectly…orchestrated.
So yeah, I've kept my distance. Not because I couldn't "fit in," but because the idea of turning myself into another photocopy in the assembly line of high school clichés felt worse than loneliness ever could.
And now I'm left wondering—does rejecting all that make me the wise one, or the fool?
Funny thing is, I used to think that keeping my distance made me stronger—like I'd found some loophole to this endless popularity contest. But lying here, blood seeping into the cracks of the pavement, I'm starting to think it's not that simple. Maybe I've built this perfect fortress, only to realize I'm the only one stuck inside it.
It's easy to call everyone else superficial, to point out their flaws from a safe distance. They wear masks; they sell themselves short; they crave attention like it's the last thing keeping them breathing. I see it, and it drives me crazy. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't shake the thought: maybe it's easier to judge from the outside. Maybe real strength is staying in the mess, despite how ridiculous and flawed it all is.
I cough, tasting blood, and let out a shaky breath. Just being here hurts. And not just physically—no, it's like every rejection, every cold shoulder, every inch of distance I put between myself and everyone else is pressing down on me, taunting me.
What if I was wrong? What if, in trying to avoid becoming one of them, I've only made myself exactly what I hate: disconnected, unreadable, another face lost in the crowd? If life is one big performance, maybe I've just been playing the wrong part.
Or maybe, just maybe, this whole charade is a trap. A maze where they've convinced us that the goal is to "belong," but the exit only shows itself when you stop running in circles.
I always thought isolation was my way of escaping the nonsense, ever since the day I learned the truth about our world, but now, I'm beginning to think that every mile I've put between me and everyone else has only locked me deeper in.
Lying here, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, I realize that I've never questioned it before, not once. I'd built my own private sanctuary of one and called it freedom.
How did I get here? Bleeding out on cold pavement, surrounded by half-truths and broken ideas I'd tried so hard to ignore.
Well, let's rewind, take it from the top. How I got myself into this mess?
It started like this…
. . .
BZZZZT.
A sharp, grating sound cut through everything, jolting me from the silence I'd welcomed.
It took a moment to register—the alarm clock. Of course.
I blinked against the early morning light, my mind still clouded from a dream that faded too fast to remember.
The alarm clock blared, wrenching me fully from whatever escape I'd found back into the monotony of reality. I slapped the snooze button with the kind of force reserved for something that owed me money. Another day, another round of pointless interactions with people who wouldn't understand me if they had a manual. Not that they ever bother to read it.
6:00 AM. The clock's red digits blinked like they were mocking my existence. Great, even technology seems to be in on this cosmic joke.
I dragged myself out of bed, surveying the battlefield that was my room. Clothes lay strewn everywhere like casualties of a war I never signed up for. A 9th-grade math book lay open on the desk, and worksheets were scattered like confetti after a particularly dull party.
Idaeus Kamaras was scrawled across the top corner of one of the sheets—my name, derived from the red raspberry, supposedly a symbol of health, vitality, and good fortune. Heh, ironic. If life were following that memo, someone forgot to send it to me.
With a resigned sigh, I scooped up a pile of clothes from the floor, shaking off the dust before shoving them into the cupboard. The sleeves hung out like they were trying to escape, but who am I to stop them? Let chaos reign.
I shuffled over to the window and peeked through the blinds. Outside, the sun valiantly tried to cheer up the October trees, their bright fiery leaves refracting light through crystal clear dew drops, looked like they'd misplaced their enthusiasm against the dreary sky. Nice view, if you're into that sort of forced optimism. Me? It just didn't match my mood.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it might shock some life into me. The coldness jolted my senses, but my reflection captured my attention. Water glided slowly from my thick, wavy black hair, past my ocean-blue eyes, which looked even more intense with the moisture clinging to my long eyelashes. The droplets traced a shimmering path down to my jawline, each one catching the light like delicate, transient lines of liquid crystal.
"Damn..."
As I stared at my reflection, the water continued its slow descent, mingling with the unruly strands of hair that had been tossed about during a restless night. I glanced at the cluttered countertop, loaded with skincare products my mom swears by. She's an absolute force of nature who incessantly nags at me to use them, and resistance is futile. So, I grabbed a random bottle.
"Cleanser?" I mumbled, squinting at the label. Is that what this stuff is? I'd always been using it as soap.
Whatever. I lathered it up and slapped it on my face. I guess you learn something new every day, huh?
After rinsing off, I dried my face and shuffled into the kitchen. I grabbed a slice of toast—no time for fancy spreads—and smeared on a thick layer of salted butter. Breakfast was quick, simple, and did the job. Kind of like me.
Once I'd finished, I brushed my teeth. The minty kick was about the only thing that jolted me awake. I spat, rinsed, and wiped my mouth on the towel, feeling slightly more human.
Back in my room, I grabbed my red hoodie from the chair. It was soft and familiar, a bit oversized but perfect for staying comfortable. The slightly loose-fitting black jeans were next—just baggy enough to look relaxed without falling off. I tightened the jeans with a belt and slid on my white sneakers, worn from years of use but still the comfiest shoes I owned. As usual, I slipped on the black leather bracelet around my right wrist and fastened the watch on my left.
I took one last look around the room. The mess was still there—clothes, books, and random papers all jumbled together—but cleaning could wait. It always does.
I tiptoed out of my room, swiftly wearing my thin black autumn jacket while grabbing my bag off the floor and slinging it over my shoulder. The hallway was dim, with the morning light casting long shadows over the wood veneers. I tried to leave the house as quietly as possible, to not wake my parents up.
At the front door, I twisted the handle slowly, wincing as the latch gave a loud click. Subtle, right? I slipped outside, the chill of the morning air smacking me in the face like it had something personal against me. The door clicked shut behind me with a finality that almost felt smug.
The walk to the bus stop wasn't exactly thrilling. I crossed the street, eyes darting both ways because, let's face it, you never know when a truck's going to barrel out of nowhere and turn you into isekai material. And honestly, I'm not ready to be reincarnated as some overpowered protagonist just yet.
The air was cold. The kind of cold that didn't just make you shiver—it felt like it was out for revenge, reminding you of every dumb decision you've ever made. So, there I stood at 7:00 AM, vibrating like a human icicle, wondering why life insists on being this absurd. Everyone else was still warm in their beds, probably dreaming of nice things. Meanwhile, I was out here, living the dream of the over-caffeinated, under-rested zombie, waiting for a bus that would take me to a school too far away for anyone's sanity.
The bus finally creaked up, and I dragged myself aboard, snagging a seat by the window because that's the least miserable place to sit. The ride itself? Riveting. Like watching paint dry on a Monday morning. People shuffled on and off, their faces blank, like they'd already given up on the day before it even started. After a solid fifteen minutes of staring out the window and mentally cursing the universe, I hopped off at the bus station and trudged across the street to the train station.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were trying to annoy me personally, casting their lovely unflattering glow on the crowd of equally tired commuters. I blended right in—just another face in the herd, mentally preparing for another round of "how to survive your commute without falling asleep."
On the train, the clatter of the tracks almost had a soothing rhythm to it, like a lullaby for the sleep-deprived. I buried my face in my phone, scrolling through Webtoons, while the city outside morphed into something more industrial. Like moving from a chaotic party to the world's most boring lecture—only, the party wasn't fun, and the lecture felt eternal.
When the train finally rolled up to my stop after 15 minutes, I hopped off, trudging toward the second bus stop. Another part of my commute I could recite in my sleep, along with the exact ads plastered around, all selling lies in shiny packages. After another twenty minutes of people-watching—aka mentally roasting everything that passed—the bus to school finally arrived.
The ITS Schools banner loomed overhead, all smug and polished, with its meticulously trimmed hedges and pristine grounds, like it was trying way too hard to impress. My parents had fallen for the sales pitch—this place promised to turn me into some kind of shining beacon of the future. I'd have settled for a school that wasn't an hour away, though, to be honest, I gotta respect the mad skill.
Walking toward the entrance, the same feeling hit me—half resignation, half reluctant acceptance. Sure, the school looked fancy enough, but to me, it was just another part of the grind. Another place to fade into the background and get through the day without any unnecessary drama. Another cog in the machine.
I was just about to head inside when I saw a girl from my class waving at me from about 15 meters away, grinning like we were best friends.
I froze. Was she actually waving at me? My face instantly started heating up, and my heart decided it was auditioning for a drum solo. Great.
I was halfway through raising my hand, about to return the wave, when another girl darted right past me. She threw herself into the other girl's arms, and they both dissolved into giggles, like they were in on some private joke I wasn't part of.
I let my hand drop, feeling more like the background character I'd always been. Figures.
I did it again.
I forgot one of my core principles.
I hate nice girls.
I've had a thing against them since middle school.
Why? Because...
A simple smile or an innocent wave is enough to send my brain spiraling into overdrive. Every interaction with them becomes this mental puzzle I can't stop trying to solve. Did they mean something more by it? Is there a hidden code in that smile, some deeper meaning I'm too dense to figure out?
It's pathetic. I know.
If they talk to me, I'll replay the conversation a hundred times like I'm some kind of detective, analyzing every word, every gesture, trying to crack the code like they've sent me a message straight from another dimension.
And God forbid they text me. I'll stare at my phone, grinning like an idiot, imagining we're in some cheesy rom-com where everything miraculously falls into place.
It's ridiculous. Embarrassing. But it's a pattern I can't seem to shake.
Nice girls have this freaky superpower. It's like they radiate this effortless warmth that turns all my cynicism into mush. With just one casual interaction, I'm stuck overthinking, tangled up in misplaced hope like a fish caught in a net.
But the thing is, I've learned my lesson.
Nice girls are just that—nice.
They're nice to me, to everyone. They're just decent human beings, doing what decent human beings do. No hidden agendas, no secret signals.
They're simply going about their day, spreading kindness like it's second nature, not realizing the kind of mental chaos they leave in their wake.
So why do I always forget that?
I shook off the awkwardness from earlier and pushed through the front doors, stepping into the familiar hum of the school.
Ahead, the staircase beckoned. The school was like a miniature society, broken down into levels that mirrored a descent into madness.
The first two floors were a chaotic carnival of bright colors and incessant noise, home to the little ones—grades 0 through 2. It was like walking through a playground where the rules of sanity didn't apply. The second floor wasn't much better, just marginally less chaotic, housing the hyperactive masses of grades 3 and 4.
The third floor? Well, that was the epicenter of all things obnoxious. Grades 5 through 7 roamed those halls like they were in some kind of alternate reality, powered by endless drama and questionable fashion choices. If there was a level of school designated for maximum annoyance, this was it.
And then, there was the fourth floor—my sanctuary. Grades 8 and 9 lived here, and while it was still a mess of teenage hormones and unnecessary rivalries, it was quieter, more bearable.
This was where I fit in. Well, more like blend in. Another face in the crowd, keeping my head down and minding my own business. Just another cog in the machine.
I made my way to our locker area, slipping off my jacket and bag and stuffing them into the narrow space. Around me, my classmates chatted away, caught up in conversations about random things that couldn't matter less to me.
Without a word, I slid into my classroom, 9A, unnoticed as usual. My feet led me to my usual spot—the back corner seat, right by the window. Classic "main character" seat. You know, the one where the anime protagonist stares out dramatically, lost in thought, as the world keeps turning.
But let's be real—I'm no protagonist. If this were an anime, I'd be the guy two rows back. No name, no lines, no plot significance—just there to fill space. A background character.
And honestly? I'm fine with that. Less attention means fewer expectations. No one looks my way unless absolutely necessary, which suits me perfectly. I get to watch the world from the sidelines, undisturbed by awkward small talk or the exhausting charade of pretending I care about people I barely know.
Up ahead, the usual suspects were already locked into their routines—laughing, chatting, acting like nothing outside their little bubble of school gossip even existed.
"Yo, wanna start a snap-streak?" one of the guys asked a girl nearby, flashing that cocky grin that always seemed to annoy me. He was decked out in head-to-toe brand names—Nike hoodie, basketball sneakers that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and a small silver chain peeking out from under his fleece.
It was Miguel. Miguel Rivera. Easily the most popular guy in school, and if I had to sum him up in one sentence, it'd go something like: the single most annoying human being to ever walk the earth.
Just looking at him made my blood pressure spike, though I couldn't fully explain why. Maybe it was his effortless popularity, or that perfect, polished persona he paraded around like it was a birthright. Maybe it was his hair—styled in that irritatingly trendy, messy-on-purpose way—or the way he always seemed to be smiling, like the universe was constantly working in his favor.
He wasn't just some random jock, either. He was smart, athletic, and genuinely nice. The kind of guy who could make anyone feel included with a casual, "Hey, what's up?". It was the sort of niceness that felt just a little too perfect, like he was constantly auditioning for some role as Mr. Popular.
Not that I wanted to be him—God, no. But there was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. He represented everything I couldn't stand: the pursuit of validation, the shallow charm, the way people like him glided through life without even trying.
Snapchat, huh? Another thing I couldn't bring myself to care about. An app that demanded constant attention, buzzing with updates about other people's mundane lives. The poster child for wasting time. Why anyone would bother sending disappearing pictures of what they had for lunch was beyond me.
But here's the thing: everyone else seemed to care.
And maybe that's why Miguel bugged me so much. He's a walking reminder of how easily some people charm their way through life—something I've never been able to pull off. It's not his fault, really. He's just playing the game like everyone else.
But me....?
.....I refuse to play that game.
Miguel laughed at something one of his buddies said, throwing his head back in that effortless, natural way only people like him seemed to manage. The sound grated on my nerves, though I'd be hard-pressed to explain why.
Then he turned his head, and before I could look away, his eyes met mine. He grinned, lifting a hand in a casual wave, like we were old friends or something.
Against my better judgment, I lifted my hand in response, a half-hearted wave back as I looked at him with my usual half lidded, impassive eyes. But inside, I was already cringing.
You're the ace of the soccer club, good-looking to boot, with the kind of popularity guys like me only experience in movies. And girls? Yeah, you're practically their god. And yet here you are, cutting into my peaceful solitude. I scowled internally. Is there no limit to your audacity, Miguel? Have you no shame?!
The guy practically had the universe smiling down on him 24/7, and he still insisted on turning his spotlight toward me, like I was just another member of his endless fan club.
But maybe that's what made him the most infuriating—he wasn't even doing it on purpose.
He just was, effortlessly charming and likable, while I was left grappling with my own disdain for the world around me.
Just as I was about to zone out, I noticed movement from the corner of my eye. A figure approached my desk, leaning in with a grin that seemed to radiate an almost disturbing level of enthusiasm.
He had short, tousled brown hair that flopped over his forehead and piercing emerald green eyes that sparkled with mischief. His whole presence seemed to scream "I play League" with an aura that practically shouted "friendly nuisance."
"Gloomy as ever, Mr. Idaeus Kamaras?" Edward's voice sliced through the quiet hum of the classroom, dripping with an annoyingly cheerful tone that could have easily been an overplayed sitcom laugh track.
I glanced up, meeting his eyes with a deadpan stare that was my go-to response for anyone daring to interrupt my inner monologue.
"What do you want, Edward?" I asked, trying to sound more engaged than I felt.
"Jeez, what's with the jaded tone?" Edward chuckled, clearly finding my mood more entertaining than troublesome. "You sound so depressing it's almost contagious…"
Edward Vercile was the closest thing I had to a "genuine" friend—though "genuine" might be stretching it a bit. We'd been in the same class since grade two, and he was the only person I bothered to talk to. Despite his relentless energy and ever-present cheer, he had a knack for getting under my skin in the most oddly endearing way possible. Think of him as a golden retriever who somehow got into a book on philosophy and decided that living life with unfiltered honesty was the best way to go. Basically—Diogenes if he was ever reincarnated.
"Anyway," he continued, leaning a bit closer, "I wanted to ask if you've sent in your high school application list to the counselor. We've only got five months left of school, after all."
"Yeah, I already sent it in," I said, shifting in my seat, trying to focus on the growing pile of paperwork and textbooks scattered across my desk.
"Wait, really? Which places did you apply to?"
"...Well, I applied to four schools, but my top choice is Thratcher Comwell High."
Thratcher Comwell was a colossal high school nestled in the heart of the old city. Surrounded by upscale buildings and European-style architecture, it sat amid the country's biggest economic hub, flanked by towering office buildings and multi-billion-dollar corporations. It was, without a doubt, the most prestigious high school in the country.
To even be considered, you needed outstanding grades. Luckily, grades weren't my concern—I was pretty proud of mine. I had an A in every subject except textiles and art. Why? Well, it's textiles and art. Not exactly my forte.
"Thratcher Comwell?!" Edward's voice spiked, startling a few students nearby with the sudden outburst.
"I mean, I know you've got good grades, but... do you really think you'll get accepted there?" he asked, his tone tinged with skepticism, despite the incredulous awe in his eyes.
"...I don't know... but that's why I've got other options too," I replied with a shrug.
It was true—the competition was brutal. Hundreds of students applied for a handful of spots. But I still had five months to improve my grades and prep for the entrance exams.
The rest of the school day dragged on, a monotonous parade of lectures and half-hearted note-taking. I tuned out the teachers' droning voices, letting my thoughts drift aimlessly through my mental maze.
Edward's relentless chatter was a constant background hum, occasionally broken by his attempts to drag me into pointless hangouts with other kids from the class after school. I really didn't want to hang out with them. Why? Let's just say most teenagers can be... pretty brain-dead. Especially when they're my age.
Half the class probably vapes, does drugs, and who knows what else. If I joined them, I'd likely get peer-pressured into something I'd regret.
Heck, who's to say they even really exist…?
Besides, I've always been alone. I don't need to hang out with anyone just to fit in.
As I sat in the classroom, a few classmates approached my desk, clearly eager to engage in small talk.
"Hey, Idaeus! Did you catch the latest episode of that show, 'Agatha all along'?" one of them asked, her voice bright with enthusiasm.
"Nope," I replied dryly, hoping my lack of interest would signal them to move along. Plus, who even watches marvel nowadays?
"Oh, come on! You're missing out! It's so good!"
"Sounds like a waste of time, just like every other recent marvel IP." I shot back, my gaze fixed on the window, the outside world looking far more appealing than this conversation.
Another classmate chimed in, trying to be friendly. "So, what are you doing after school? You should totally join us for a movie night!"
I sighed, a familiar irritation bubbling up. "I've got better things to do than watch people laugh at terrible jokes."
I wasn't trying to be mean or anything, I was just saying the truth. Marvel has turned to shit.
Their expressions faltered for a moment, but they quickly masked it with forced smiles. "You're such a downer, Idaeus!" one of them teased, but I could see the annoyance in his eyes.
They were probably thinking something along the lines of 'Who does this guy think he is, he should be happy we're inviting him' or something, which I couldn't care less about. If they think they're doing a favor for me, they're dead wrong.
"Guess I'm just being realistic," I replied, shrugging. "You do you."
Lunch came and went in its usual, uninspiring way—lukewarm cafeteria food and the relentless din of students who seemed hell-bent on filling every silence with noise.
By the time the final class ended, marking the end of the school day, I felt a familiar mix of relief and resignation. I packed up my things quickly, casting a glance at Edward as he rambled on about some after-school activity he wanted me to join.
"I'll pass, thanks," I said, keeping it short to avoid any further explanation.
Edward's face fell a bit, but he shook it off and plastered his grin back on. "Suit yourself. See you tomorrow!"
I gave him a nod and made my way out of the classroom. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, stretching shadows across the school grounds.
I took a deep breath of the cool evening air, savoring the rare moment of peace.
As I walked home, I let myself enjoy the golden-pink hue of the clouds and the fiery colors of the fallen leaves crunching underfoot. It was one of those fleeting moments where the world felt almost... bearable.
The day's dullness slowly faded, replaced by the serene calm of the evening. The sunset painted the sky in a palette of warm hues, casting elongated shadows that danced with each step I took. The city, usually bustling with energy, was now winding down, the clamor of daytime replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of traffic.
As I was about to cross the street, something snagged my attention—a playground in the distance, bathed in the soft, dying light of dusk. It stood eerily silent, a ghostly remnant of the vibrant chaos it must have hosted earlier in the day. I slowed my pace, inexplicably drawn to the sight, a shiver of recognition creeping up my spine. The swings swayed gently in the breeze, their creaking whispering of forgotten secrets long since buried.
It all felt... disconcertingly familiar.
A flicker at the periphery of my vision made me freeze. For a fleeting, surreal instant, the playground seemed to ripple like a mirage. The very edges of reality appeared to warp and bend, as though the scene was painted on liquid glass.
The merry-go-round morphed into a nightmarish vision, its vibrant colors draining away, replaced by a grotesque black and pink checkered pattern.
My heart lurched, a cold shiver running down my spine. I blinked rapidly, willing the illusion to vanish. When my eyes cleared, the playground was as it had been—normal, unremarkable. But the sense of dread remained, gnawing at my insides.
It wasn't just a trick of the light. I had seen it—a glitch, a tear in the very fabric of reality. My breath caught in my throat, a sudden wave of panic crashing over me.
Memories, long buried and shrouded in fear, surged violently to the surface. I was eight years old again, standing before a crumbling building, dwarfed by its looming presence. Men in black suits had emerged from the shadows, their faces hidden behind dark glasses. They spoke in hushed, menacing tones, their words a cryptic puzzle my young mind couldn't unravel. All I retained from that encounter was a gnawing fear and deep, visceral confusion.
I shook my head violently, trying to dispel the haunting recollection. My pace quickened into a panicked sprint, the once-familiar streets now alien, every shadow stretching ominously, pressing in on me.
The evening light surrendered to encroaching darkness as I darted past rows of apartment buildings and villas. The quiet city streets amplified the frantic rhythm of my footsteps. My breaths came in ragged bursts, and I plunged into a narrow, dark alleyway, the walls pressing in like a claustrophobic embrace.
I skidded to a stop, eyes wide with terror, as a group of figures emerged from the darkness. Men in black suits, their faces concealed behind the same dark glasses from my childhood nightmares, blocked the alleyway. My pulse pounded erratically, and a frigid terror gripped me.
"Not again," I whispered, my voice trembling as a shiver coursed through my body.
The men closed in, their movements deliberate and unnervingly calm. One of them stepped forward, his voice smooth yet laced with an unsettling chill. "You saw it, didn't you? Both now and back then."
Why?
Why??
Why???
I tried to retreat, but the alley seemed to constrict, shadows swirling menacingly around me. The man's eyes, obscured yet piercing through those dark glasses, met mine with a chilling emptiness.
"You somehow survived, huh?" he continued, his tone devoid of emotion. "That's impressive."
The world around me began to distort and shimmer again, the edges of reality bending and swirling like ripples in a disturbed pond. My heart hammered furiously in my chest, thoughts a chaotic maelstrom of fear and disbelief.
As I tried to make sense of the situation, the man in the black suit raised his hand in a slow, deliberate motion. It was an almost casual gesture, yet it held a terrifying gravity. He snapped and I felt my vision begin to swim as a searing pain exploded in my stomach. I looked down in horror to see a gaping, gory hole where my abdomen should have been, the raw edges glistening with dark, crimson blood.
The pain was unbearable, a jagged, twisting agony that seemed to tear through my insides. My breath came in ragged, tortured gasps as I felt the warmth of my own blood trickling down my side. My eyes darted around frantically, searching for a way out, but everything blurred into a nightmarish haze. A small spurt of blood escaped my mouth, staining my lips with a stark, dark red. The world around me tilted, the once-solid ground now an unstable, shifting surface.
With a final, wrenching gasp, my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the cold, hard ground. Darkness closed in, pulling me down into an abyss of unbearable pain and fading consciousness.
Before I could react, the darkness swallowed everything. My vision blurred, and the world dissolved into an oppressive, suffocating blackness.
I watched through heavy eyelids as the men in black suits walked away, dissolving into the distance. Their footsteps echoed inside my skull, hollow and distant.
"Great. Just great," I muttered weakly. "This is how I go out—like a background character in my own life."
But even as the bitterness slipped from my lips, something deeper gnawed at me—a weight far heavier than the pain tearing through my body. My chest tightened, not from the blood loss, but from something far worse.
And that's how I came here... delivering some monologue like I'm a protagonist in a web novel or something. How ridiculous is that?
But no. This isn't fiction. This isn't some grand ending with meaning.
This is just me. Dying. Alone.
The weight of the realization crashed over me, sharper than any physical pain. My mind wandered to the faces I'd never see again.
My parents. I could almost see them now—faint memories, hazy but heartbreaking. I remembered their faces, creased with worry, the way their voices trembled when they tried to reach me. How many times had I shut them out? How many nights had they stayed awake, wondering what they'd done wrong?
And my little sister—god, she deserved so much better than me. Her wide, innocent eyes looking up to me like I was some kind of hero. She trusted me, needed me. And I failed her. Every single time.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling with the weight of a thousand regrets. "I'm so sorry."
I had never said it enough. Had I even said it at all? Now it was too late. The thought of them sitting around a dinner table, my chair forever empty… my mom crying into her hands, my dad holding her, his shoulders shaking with the kind of silent sobs that rip you apart. My sister… I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear thinking about how she'd grow up without me there. How she'd wonder why I wasn't strong enough to stay.
I wished I could go back, just once, to see them again. To hold them. To tell them everything I'd been too proud, too stubborn to admit. That I needed them more than anything. That I was sorry for every cold shoulder, every time I pushed them away because I didn't want them to see the mess I was.
How do you say goodbye when you never learned how to say, "I love you"?
I thought about all the times I should've been there—for them, for myself. But I wasn't.
I hid.
I built walls so high, no one could reach me.
Not even them.
They tried—oh god, they tried so hard. But I kept pushing, thinking I was protecting myself, thinking that if I didn't let them in, I couldn't be hurt.
But now, lying here, bleeding out, I realized I had hurt them more than anyone ever could've hurt me. I'd pushed away the people who loved me the most. And now I'd never get the chance to make it right.
My chest ached with a pain that went far beyond the physical. It was the pain of every missed moment, every word left unsaid. The pain of knowing that I had spent my whole life running from the very people who would've run to me if I'd just let them.
I thought about her too—the girl I never had the guts to talk to. I could see her now, laughing with her friends in the hallway, her smile lighting up the room. I never even knew her name. I never asked. I was too scared, too convinced that I wasn't worth her time.
What if I had tried? What if I had just said hello? What if I had let myself believe, for once, that someone could care about me?
Now I'll never know. I'll never know if I could've had something real—something worth holding onto.
And Edward—god, Edward. I pushed him away too, didn't I? I thought I was doing him a favor, keeping him at arm's length so he wouldn't see how messed up I was inside. But I could see his face now, the way his smile faltered every time I brushed him off. He deserved a better friend than me.
"I'm sorry, Ed," I choked out, the tears burning my eyes. "I'm so sorry."
There were so many things I regretted. So many paths I could've taken, so many chances I let slip through my fingers. And now, all I had was the unbearable weight of those regrets, pressing down on me like I was drowning under the ocean, with no way to reach the surface.
I thought about all the time I wasted, convincing myself that nothing mattered, that life was just some cruel joke. But now, lying here, bleeding out on the cold ground, I realized how badly I wanted it to matter. I wanted to live. To really, truly live. And I never let myself.
It wasn't just about people, either. It was about me—about all the things I never let myself want. All the things I convinced myself weren't worth chasing. Passions, dreams, purpose… they always felt so far away, like they belonged to someone else. Like they were for the kind of people who knew what they wanted out of life, not for someone like me, who was just… drifting.
I never had anything to hold onto. Never found something that made me feel alive.
People talked about passion like it was this burning fire inside them—this thing that kept them going, even when everything else felt impossible. I used to think they were lying, that no one could really feel that strongly about anything. I told myself that passion was just another illusion, another thing people pretended to have so they didn't have to face the emptiness inside.
But now… now I wished I had been wrong. I wished I had found something that set my soul on fire, something that gave me a reason to keep fighting, even when it all felt pointless. I wished I had let myself care about something, anything, enough to fight for it.
But I didn't. I just coasted through life, numb and detached, never letting myself feel too much. And now, lying here, I realized how much I had missed out on. How much I had let slip away because I was too scared to care.
I wished I had tried harder. I wished I had let myself hope, even when it seemed foolish. I wished I had been brave enough to open my heart, instead of building walls so thick that even I couldn't tear them down.
And then it hit me, all at once.
I'd spent so long convincing myself that happiness was a lie—that it was just some fleeting thing that would eventually get ripped away. I had told myself that trusting someone, letting myself be vulnerable, was a weakness. That if I let anyone in, they'd only use it to hurt me.
But god, how I wanted to be wrong.
I wanted to trust. I wanted to believe that someone could see me—really see me—and not run away. That maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as broken as I thought. But I never let myself have that. I shut down before I could even try, because I was too scared to hope for something better.
I wanted to be happy. I wanted it so bad. But I didn't let myself believe it was possible. I convinced myself that happiness was something for other people—people who weren't like me, people who hadn't seen what I'd seen. People who didn't know how cruel the world could be.
Those who had the privilege of being ignorant enough to not know the truth.
But lying here, dying, I realized something. Maybe I could've been happy. Maybe I could've trusted someone. Maybe, if I'd just let myself be vulnerable, I could've had something real. Something worth living for.
I wanted to go back. I wanted another chance. To trust, to be vulnerable. To be happy, even if just for a moment.
But it was too late.
"I'm sorry," I whispered again, my voice barely more than a breath. "For everything."
I wanted more time. More time to fix things. To tell them I loved them. To apologize for all the hurt I'd caused. But the darkness was closing in, swallowing every last bit of light. Every last bit of hope.
I wanted to go back. Just one more chance. One more chance to make it right.
But I knew, deep down, that it was too late.
It was too late for everything.
The last thing I felt was the weight of my regrets, heavier than the world, as the darkness took me.
in that final, fleeting moment, I realized: the greatest tragedy of all wasn't dying—
It was never truly living.
The next thing I knew, I was staring up at the blinding glow of fluorescent lights, their harsh buzz filling the sterile silence of the room. My head throbbed, the beeping of medical equipment cutting through the fog in my mind, pulling me back to reality.
I blinked, trying to make sense of the disorienting scene around me. Slowly, reluctantly, the memories flooded back, each one more surreal than the last. The alleyway. The blood. The men in suits.
I expected to see the crimson stains on my clothes, the gaping wound in my stomach where the blade had pierced me, but... nothing. There was nothing. Just a few bandages tightly wrapped around my stomach and forehead.
I stared down at myself, bewildered. No blood, no pain—nothing but faint soreness, as if the entire nightmare had been a cruel hallucination.
A cold shiver crept down my spine, and unease settled in my gut like a stone. Everything felt off. The pain, the darkness... it had been too vivid, too real.
This wasn't over.
If anything, it was just beginning.
"I survived... again?" The words slipped out, barely a whisper, my voice hoarse with disbelief.
It didn't feel like survival. It felt like I was on borrowed time, like there was something lurking just beyond the edges of this waking moment, waiting to pull me under again.