I drift into uneasy sleep, the kind that grips you tight and drags you under before you have the chance to fight it. And in the depths of that darkness, my past comes creeping back, unwelcome as ever.
A cramped apartment. More shadow than light. The kind of place where dreams go to die and leftovers go to multiply.
My old life plays out in eerie stillness. A single bed shoved into the corner, a desk barely standing under the weight of an aging computer, its soft hum the only constant in my existence. The walls? Bare. The calendar? Faded and long out of date. Much like its owner.
I see myself standing in the doorway one evening, tired, expressionless, looking around a room that felt more like a holding cell than a home. The air smelled of instant ramen and resignation. Shadows clung to every corner, filling the silence with ghosts of things I had long since stopped hoping for.
Then, the inevitable. My phone buzzes in my pocket, shattering the moment. A message flashes across the cracked screen:
"Cover for Mark tomorrow. Don't be late."
Not a request. A command.
I don't remember the last time anyone spoke to me with warmth. I don't remember the last time anyone called me by name without needing something in return. The weight of it settles deep, like something lodged in my ribs.
Work.
The convenience store was small, wedged between a laundromat that constantly smelled of detergent and regret, and a busy street where life went on without me. I remember myself standing behind the counter, wearing a dull uniform that had given up on life long before I had.
People drifted in and out, their faces blurring together in a never-ending stream of transactions and half-hearted greetings. Most barely acknowledged me. Not that I blamed them—I barely acknowledged myself.
The regulars? They were polite enough. The kind of polite that doesn't mean much, like saying "Take care" when you don't actually care.
And friendships? Well, those had faded faster than my last bit of enthusiasm for life. Much like my parents, much like every connection I had ever made. They left. Everyone did. No siblings. No extended family. Just me, standing behind a counter, waiting for a life that wasn't going to happen.
At the end of my shift, I'd buy two cups of ramen—one for dinner, one for breakfast—and retreat into the one thing that made sense. The game.
Sitting in that dimly lit room, face bathed in the glow of my monitor, I lived a different life. One where I had purpose. One where I mattered.
I was someone else there. A warrior, a mage, a rogue—anything but me. The missions, the dungeons, the endless cycle of leveling up. It was the one place where my actions had weight, where people needed me—even if they were just strangers behind another screen.
Fingers hovered over the keyboard, searching for something beyond the pixels, something always just out of reach.
Then I'd fall asleep to the sound of my computer humming, my dreams filled with battles I'd never fight, victories I'd never win, and a life that wasn't mine.
And now?
Light hits my eyes. For a split second, I expect to see the cracked ceiling of my apartment. I half expect to hear the hum of my old PC, a late-night Discord notification, or the distant honk of a passing car.
Instead, there's a bright, foreign ceiling. The scent of clean linens and polished wood. The distant murmur of voices, the sound of my name being called—except it's not my name, not the one I used to own.
"Silva! Silva!"
Oh. Right.
I'm still here.
The weight of reality settles on my chest, heavier than before. I let out a slow breath, rubbing my eyes.
Gone is the dull apartment, the flickering screen, the mindless routine.
A new life. A new world.
But nothing really changed.
I can still feel my death.