Self In The Story

Newt stared at the ceiling of his small, dimly lit apartment. The bulb above flickered faintly, as if undecided whether to stay alive or give up entirely—a sentiment Newt found oddly relatable. He hadn't left his apartment in three days. The world outside had grown too loud, too insistent, and far too full of people with their relentless questions, their exhausting smiles. Newt had decided, quite rationally, that the best way to handle it was to simply not engage.His mornings were always the same: wake up, brush his teeth, boil water for instant coffee, and stare blankly out the window while the world carried on without him. Today was no different. He shuffled to the kitchenette, his feet dragging against the scuffed wooden floor. The kettle hissed as it heated, and Newt leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for the first sip of caffeine to pull him into some semblance of wakefulness.Outside, the sun was bright and sharp, throwing jagged lines of light across his apartment through the slatted blinds. He squinted against it, annoyed by the intrusion of something so alive into his carefully controlled solitude. Newt's phone buzzed from the counter, but he didn't reach for it. Messages from old friends, overdue bills, maybe even another missed call from his mother. He wasn't in the mood to face any of it.By noon, he was perched on the edge of his couch, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling on the table before him. His laptop glowed faintly from across the room, beckoning him to open it and sift through emails or scroll aimlessly through the internet. He ignored it, opting instead to sit in silence. He told himself he was thinking, but really, he wasn't thinking about anything at all. It was easier that way.When hunger finally gnawed at him, Newt grabbed a stale bagel from the fridge and ate it without toasting it. The texture was tough and unpleasant, but he didn't care. It was sustenance, and that was enough. The afternoon dragged on, punctuated only by the occasional sound of traffic from the street below. He tried reading a book, but the words blurred together, his mind refusing to focus. He tossed it aside after ten minutes.As evening crept in, the loneliness started to settle, as it always did. Not that Newt would admit it to himself. He'd grown used to the solitude, even embraced it. People were messy, complicated, and exhausting. It was easier to live like this, with no one to disappoint and no one to disappoint him in return. He flipped through channels on his dusty old TV, letting the white noise of sitcom laughter fill the room.By 10 PM, Newt's routine was winding down. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing his teeth and avoiding his own reflection. He didn't need to see himself. He already knew what he'd find: the same tired eyes, the same slumped shoulders, the same weight pressing down on him. He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and turned off the light.The bed creaked as he climbed into it, the sheets cold and uninviting. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the paint as if they might offer him some kind of answer. The minutes ticked by, and sleep didn't come easily. It never did.Tomorrow would be the same. It always was.