His Fall Was Quiet This Time.
No screams, no resistance, no slow-motion moments flashing before his eyes.
Only emptiness—the cold air slapping his face, the shattered reflections of city lights flickering across the glass windows of towering buildings as he plummeted toward the ground.
Then—impact.
But once again, he did not die.
Awakening
Silence. Then a faint buzzing sound. Then a crushing weight on his chest, as if the air had thickened, as if his body no longer belonged to him. He tried to move his fingers; it took a few seconds before a faint tingling spread through his limbs.
Then came the light—harsh, white, blinding. It burned his retinas for a moment before his eyes adjusted to his new reality. The sharp scent of antiseptics filled his nose, the monotonous beeping of medical devices pulsed beside him, and the air was sterile to the point of suffocation.
He had been here before.
The hospital.
Again.
He blinked twice, then looked at the white walls surrounding him. The same room, the same closed windows, the same dim lights.
A wave of déjà vu crashed over him, as if this moment were nothing more than a replay of a scene he had memorized too well, as if his entire life had become a closed loop—spinning and spinning, yet going nowhere.
He tried to move his hand but felt the sting of needles embedded in his skin. Tubes were connected to his wrist, a heart monitor beeped indifferently beside him, recording the rhythm of a life he no longer wanted.
Slowly, he turned his head—and found them.
The Witnesses of His Fall
His father sat in a chair, arms crossed, head tilted slightly forward, as if fighting off sleep after a long night. His face was pale, his features stiff as if carved from stone, his eyes weighed down by exhaustion.
Beside him, his mother clutched her prayer beads, whispering silent words—perhaps a prayer, perhaps a plea. Her eyes were red from crying, her lips trembled with unspoken emotions.
His sister stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, arms folded. Her expression wasn't sad or angry—just tired.
They were used to this.
Used to his incomplete deaths, his unfinished falls, his attempts that always ended where they began.
Here. In this bed. Connected to machines that dragged him back to the life he kept trying to escape.
A heavy silence settled over the room before his mother finally spoke.
"Triton…"
Her voice was soft, almost pleading—like an unhealed wound. She approached him hesitantly, took his hand, but her touch was cold. It wasn't the warmth of a mother desperately wishing for her child to return to life. It was the hesitant touch of someone afraid of breaking fragile glass, someone who knew that no matter how careful they were, the glass would shatter—and they would bleed from the fragments.
"This time was worse than before. You almost…" She faltered, unable to finish the sentence.
Die.
He should have died.
But he didn't.
"You almost did it this time."
His father's voice was steady, devoid of emotion. He looked at him with an unreadable expression—not anger, not sorrow, just emptiness.
Like a man who had exhausted every feeling and was left with nothing but fatigue.
Then, after a long sigh, he spoke again, voice low:
"Will this be the last time?"
It wasn't a hopeful question. It wasn't a warning, nor a threat.
It was just a hollow inquiry—like asking about the weather or the time for his next dose of medication.
Triton didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Maybe he would try again.
Maybe he would pretend to be better—take the pills, attend therapy sessions, make empty promises, and live a few months like an ordinary person.
Then… he would jump again. Or find another way. And he would end up back here. In this bed. Repeating the cycle over and over.
Or maybe, next time, he would succeed.
"I'm sorry."
He finally said it—a small lie spoken only because they needed to hear it.
His mother didn't believe him. His father didn't believe him. Even his sister, seven years younger than him, didn't bother hiding her smirk as she muttered under her breath:
"You're not sorry. You just failed again."
He closed his eyes, exhausted.
Yes, maybe that was the truth.
He wasn't sorry—for them or for himself.
No one could understand him. Not even himself.
A loving family, a warm home, a stable job at twenty-four, friends who surrounded him—a perfect life by all standards.
No tragic past, no hidden wounds, no real reason to be like this.
And yet, he found himself on the brink of death.
By whose hands? His own.
Trying to kill himself without realizing it. Without awareness. Without even remembering the moments leading up to it.
All he ever recalled were the bloodstains on his clothes before losing consciousness, or the blinding lights and the resistance of air against his body as he fell from a height he couldn't even remember climbing.
Like a glass bottle that had cracked without knowing, waiting eagerly for the moment of its final shattering.
But he didn't know—
That the truth was far beyond what he could imagine.
That his repeated attempts weren't just a longing for death.
That his body wasn't trying to end him—
It was trying to wake him up.
And if he had known…
Maybe, just maybe, he would have feared what was coming more than he ever feared dying.
Because something inside him had begun to break.
And this time, it wasn't just his body.
It was the thin, fragile barrier between his mind and a reality he had long forgotten.
A reality he wasn't supposed to remember.
Not yet.