Ten years had passed, and here I was—staring at the glowing screen of my laptop in the dimly lit room. The room had a vibe that could make anyone believe I was secretly hiding from the world, but let's be honest, it wasn't like I had much else to do.
The room, although dark, was immaculately neat. That's something I can give myself credit for. The bed sat to the right of the main door, the wardrobe and drawer acting as loyal sentinels between me and the doorway. To my left, a Japanese-style desk stood proudly, as if it were trying to convince the room that I was indeed productive. In front of the bed was a Japanese-style sofa, its presence making me question if I was too comfy for my own good. And then, there was the glass table—perfect for putting stuff down but never actually using. Next to it, a small one-person sofa—because who doesn't need two seats in a one-bedroom apartment?
The kitchen door stood at the opposite end of the room. A door leading to the washing area was right in front of my bed, as if the universe itself wanted to keep reminding me of the chaos that awaited me in the next room. And in case I needed more air conditioning in my life (I didn't), the big AC was blowing cold air directly on me, giving me a constant chill for added drama. And of course, my prized PC setup sat beside my bed, just waiting for me to have an existential crisis at 3 AM while watching anime.
I was scrolling through my media app, lost in the void of procrastination, when I thought to myself, "I am an addict." Yes, I'm the kind of person who knows he's addicted, but hey—why not indulge? Anime. Manga. Wealth. My own physique. Throw in a little smoking and drinking, and that pretty much sums up my last few years of existence.
I sighed dramatically as I switched apps. "I'm an ambivert," I muttered. "I don't even go to school right now, but I might join soon. Zag's still in middle school, though he looks the exact same, which is oddly suspicious." I paused. "I mean, who doesn't age in ten years, right?"
I reflected on my current situation: "I've got four sisters. I'm financially elite but living on rent because… life." Then, I thought about my part-time job. I wasn't exactly living the dream, but hey, who needs sleep when you're chasing the illusion of happiness through online marketing and food delivery?
Speaking of food delivery, those days were a trip. I'd knock on a door, and 99% of the time, a lady would open it and just... stare. Like, a deep, soul-searching kind of stare. I'd nod, awkwardly hand over the food, and leave before I realized I might've just been the subject of some unspoken societal experiment. One time, I swear a lady tried to recruit me for a pyramid scheme.
I closed my laptop, stood up, and walked around my room like I was the star of my own late-night talk show. "Yeah," I muttered. "My nickname's not even Hansi anymore. Sam changed it. Now I'm Manu. Real lord. True master." I picked up my cup from the PC table. "Sam likes to add chan, san, or nan to it for variety. He's a character, that one."
I wandered into the kitchen, which was as typically Japanese as you could imagine. The design was pristine—perfectly arranged with an electric stove, grinder, and some fancy kitchen gadgets that I honestly didn't know how to use. Next to the stove was my huge fridge—in case I wanted to feel like I had my life together.
I filled my cup with water, took a long sip, and stared at the fridge like it held all the answers to my problems. Maybe it did. I returned to my room, threw myself back onto my bed, and waited for sleep to claim me.
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The next morning, I woke up at 8 AM. Yeah, I'm that guy. The one who doesn't exactly "sleep in" but also doesn't wake up at the crack of dawn. I went through my usual routine—brushing my teeth, washing my face, and mentally preparing myself for the day of non-events.
By 9 AM, I was dressed in my signature superhero outfit: a cape and a mask. It was the kind of disguise that made me look like a serial killer on a mission or a weird fitness influencer who takes themselves way too seriously. Regardless, I wasn't trying to stand out today—just blend in, with style.
I headed to the gym. The gym itself was called "Builder." Not "The Builder," just "Builder." Because, apparently, branding is overrated. I registered myself in silence, as one does when they're in their awkward "don't talk to me" phase. I dropped my bag in the corner, next to a few other bags that didn't look like they belonged to anyone serious.
Then, I approached the dumbbell rack. These were not your average dumbbells. These were the kind of dumbbells that made you question your life choices—400 lbs.
I stared them down. "You know, I'm not sure who's more nervous right now. You, or me."
The dumbbells didn't respond, but I definitely did. I grabbed the dumbbells, and like a madman, I curled them. Smooth, clean, and effortlessly. 12 reps, three sets. I mean, this is basically the stuff of legends. After every set, I made sure to give the dumbbells a smug look. "Yeah, that's right. You're welcome."
I moved on to the cable tricep pushdown machine. I stacked the weights to the max, because why not? I'm a beast today. Twelve reps, three sets. People stared. They didn't know what they were witnessing, but I did. And that's all that mattered.
After finishing my routine, I collapsed onto a bench. "Time for a 10-minute rest," I said to no one in particular. I didn't even know why I needed rest. It was probably just for dramatic effect.
And so, with my workout complete and my ego as inflated as my biceps, I walked out of the gym, cape swishing in the wind, ready to face the world again—or, at least, find
something to binge-watch on my laptop.