Arthur's life hadn't been anything special. He was just a regular guy—someone who drifted through the world without much direction, like he was meant to live an ordinary life without any big achievements. He'd graduated from a typical, forgettable high school. Like most people, he had a few friends, got decent grades, and played video games. His school years passed by slowly, quietly, without much to define them.
Then, about eight months after graduation, things started to feel heavier. Arthur felt completely lost. He'd never really thought about what it meant to grow up—not until he was staring it in the face. The pressure to take responsibility, to be independent, to figure out what came next—it all crept in and settled like a weight on his chest. Life felt dull and uncertain. He was stuck at home with a family who cared about him, but even they couldn't tell him what to do with his future. That was something he had to figure out on his own. And honestly, he didn't even know where to begin.
Days blended together. Arthur would wake up late, stare at the ceiling for a while, then scroll through his phone until his eyes hurt. There was no routine—just passing time. He'd sometimes go for a walk around the neighborhood, earbuds in, music up, trying to quiet the constant hum of "what now?" in his head.
His friends had started to drift off in different directions. College, jobs, moving out—doing things that, on paper, made sense. But Arthur couldn't bring himself to follow. The idea of picking a major or applying for a job felt like choosing something blindly and hoping it wouldn't ruin him later. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt like his thing.
Sometimes he'd sit out on the porch late at night, when the world was quiet. He liked the stillness, the way the wind felt against his skin, the distant hum of a car passing now and then. That silence—it made him feel something. Not happy exactly, but not numb either. Just aware.
His parents had given him plenty of space to figure things out—to find his path, whatever that meant. But lately, Arthur could feel something shift in the way they looked at him. There was a quiet doubt behind their eyes, one they never said out loud but that he could feel all the same. And with it came fear. Fear of not fitting in. Fear of being left behind. Fear that everyone saw him as a disappointment.
All Arthur ever wanted was to feel like he belonged. Even if his place in the world was small or unnoticed, he just wanted it to mean something. He never dreamed of being famous, or rich, or admired. He just wanted to matter to someone. To be someone, even in the smallest way.
But lately, the thought had been creeping in—maybe he wouldn't ever belong. Maybe in a world this crowded, this busy with people chasing meaning in things that felt hollow to him, there just wasn't a place carved out for someone like him. He saw people moving forward, hiding parts of themselves just to fit into systems and roles that felt fake and empty. It made him wonder if he was meant to keep drifting—never really grounded, never really living, just watching the world pass by.
Eventually, his parents reached their limit. They didn't yell, didn't lash out—just quietly told him it was time to go. They still loved him, Arthur knew that much. But they couldn't keep watching him waste away, drifting aimlessly while life moved on without him. So they gave him just enough money to rent a small apartment and survive for a year, hoping it would be enough to push him into motion.
It was a wake-up call, though not the kind he expected. For the first time, he was truly alone. And for the first time, he realized something terrifying—if he didn't find a way to exist in this world, to fit in somewhere, he might not make it at all.
The first few months were rough. He scraped together what he could, eventually landing a part-time job at a small grocery store. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills. So he smiled at customers, stocked shelves, and laughed at jokes that didn't feel funny. Every day, he wore a mask—just like everyone else, or so he told himself. Pretending to care. Pretending to belong.
But the more he faked it, the more he felt like he was fading. Every smile chipped away at something inside him. The version of himself he showed to the world didn't feel real. It was just a hollow shell, built to survive. And the deeper he sank into that persona, the more he felt like the real Arthur—whoever that was—was slipping away.
He hated it. This life, this world—it felt wrong. Plastic. Impossible to fix.
At least, that's what he thought.
Until that day.
The day when everything changed—when nearly the entire world, the life he had come to resent, died.