The boy finally admits it to himself; he's truly lost, drifting in some uncharted wasteland of his own making. He can see the pit ahead, feel its pull, yet he takes no steps to avoid it. Each second ticks by, a reminder that he should be revising, making progress, moving forward. But he doesn't. Instead, he lets the day slip through his fingers, too paralyzed to even feign an effort.
He goes along with the flow, as if someone else were making his decisions, a spectator in his own life. In the quiet of his mind, he wonders about the future, about those dreams he'd once held so close. He knows, with a certainty that feels bone-deep, that he's letting each of those goals slip out of reach. And yet… he feels nothing. Not a single pang of regret, not even the slightest whisper of urgency.
As he writes, he acknowledges this truth, laying it bare, but it only deepens the emptiness. He's not even sure if he's fighting this feeling or giving in to it anymore.