The sky was a canvas of muted gray, the kind of color that felt like silence. Ramses stood at the edge of a rooftop, looking down at the world that had long since stopped moving. Cars frozen mid-turn, a bird suspended mid-flight, a cyclist hovering inches off the ground—everything was paused, as if the universe had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale.
It had been—well, Ramses wasn't sure how long. Time had stopped tracking itself. Days and nights still came and went, but there was no ticking clock, no school bells, no appointments, no rushing crowds. Just stillness. Just him.
At first, the silence was thrilling. The world had finally given him space, a moment to breathe. For someone who had lived in the chaos of anxiety, that quiet felt like peace. But that peace, over time, had started to weigh on him like a blanket left on too long—warm, but suffocating.
He sat down on the edge of the building, legs swinging gently above the city street below. The breeze brushed his skin, gentle and indifferent.
"Why am I still doing this?" he whispered to himself.
That question had started as a murmur in his mind weeks ago, and now it was screaming louder each day. He had improved—he had worked out, eaten better, meditated, journaled, learned new skills, read more than he ever thought possible. He had sculpted a better version of himself from the mess he used to be.
But now the glow of self-improvement had dimmed, not because it wasn't worthwhile, but because he didn't know why it mattered anymore. Who was he doing this for?
There was no one left to share it with. No friends to laugh with, no professors to impress, no future boss to notice his growth. There were no likes or shares or compliments. Just an empty world and a man trying to give himself a reason to keep going.
He closed his eyes and let the question echo again.
What is the purpose of growth in a world where no one is watching?
He thought back to his old life—before the freeze. He remembered chasing purpose like a finish line. Good grades. A decent job. A version of happiness that looked good on paper. He had tried so hard to fit himself into the roles people expected of him. And when he failed to meet those expectations, when anxiety ate through his motivation and depression flattened his days, he felt like he had lost his purpose entirely.
Now, in the absolute silence of the world, he had no choice but to confront what was left.
He wandered the city that day with no destination. He passed a bookstore where he'd once spent an hour talking to a girl about poetry. She was still there, hand outstretched to grab a book from the top shelf, her lips parted like she was about to say something clever. He paused, staring at her frozen expression.
"What were you going to say?" he asked. "Did it matter?"
His voice cracked. He hadn't spoken to another soul in what felt like years.
He moved on.
He walked to a park where children were stuck mid-laughter, a frisbee hovering in the air. He stepped between them, observing the joy caught in limbo. It made his chest ache. Was joy only real if someone else could share it?
Or could joy exist for its own sake?
He wandered through the old college library, sat in the lecture hall where he once failed a test that wrecked his confidence for months. That failure used to define him. Now, sitting in the empty hall, he couldn't remember why he gave it so much power.
"I'm more than the things I failed at," he said aloud, to no one.
He took out a notebook from his bag and wrote a simple sentence:
"If no one ever sees who I become, would it still matter that I became?"
He stared at the words.
Something stirred in him.
That evening, Ramses returned to the rooftop. The sky had shifted to the soft orange of a dying day. He sat down again, arms resting on his knees, eyes scanning the city below.
He thought about the people he used to admire—the artists who painted even when their work went unnoticed, the writers who wrote stories without publishing them, the inventors who toiled in silence. Their purpose hadn't always been about recognition. Sometimes it was just about the doing—about becoming who they were meant to be, whether or not anyone else ever noticed.
Maybe that's what purpose really was.
Not a destination.
Not applause.
Not even impact.
But movement.
The choice to keep growing even when the world gave you no reason to.
"I'm still here," he whispered. "Maybe that's enough."
He took out the notebook again and wrote more.
"Today I asked myself why I keep moving. The answer came in a whisper: Because I still can. Because maybe the act of becoming is the purpose itself."
Tears slipped down his cheeks, not from sadness, but from release. He had spent so long looking for purpose in validation, in approval, in the gaze of others. But now, alone in a paused world, he was finding something purer.
Something internal.
Purpose as presence. As becoming. As breathing.
He looked out into the world again, not with the longing of someone waiting to be seen, but with the quiet strength of someone who had finally learned to see himself.
Tomorrow, he would wake up and keep going.
Not because he had to.
But because he chose to.