The world dies in moments. Not with a thunderous crash, but with the quiet surrender of hope.
I am dying.
Not dramatically. Not with the heroic defiance of stories told around flickering campfires. My death is a slow, methodical betrayal of flesh and spirit—a quiet implosion witnessed only by the sterile walls of a hospital room that has become my entire universe.
The ceiling above me flickers. A fluorescent light, struggling against its own mortality, casts jagged shadows that dance like specters across the cold white expanse. Each pulse reminds me of my own failing heartbeat—irregular, desperate, fading.
I cannot move.
Not because of restraints. Not because of medical devices that bind me to this moment. No, I cannot move because I have already surrendered. Every ounce of fight has been methodically stripped away, layer by layer, year by year, until nothing remains but this hollow shell.
The stench of disinfectant coats my throat—a bitter, chemical embrace that masks the true smell of decay. My lungs burn with each shallow breath, glass shards of pain slicing through whatever remnants of hope still cling to my bones.
Outside the window, the night sky mocks me.
Clouds hang heavy, pregnant with unspoken storms. The moon—that celestial witness to countless human tragedies—peeks through just enough to illuminate my final moments. Its light is cold. Indifferent. A silent testament that the universe neither knows nor cares about my existence.
This world never loved me.
The thought isn't bitter. It's a simple truth, as fundamental as the air that struggles to fill my dying lungs.
Memories flood back—not in a gentle stream, but like shattered glass cutting through the fog of my consciousness:
"You're too quiet."
"Why can't you be more like your brother?"
"Grow up. Stop being so sensitive."
Each memory is a weapon. Each word, a surgical strike against my self-worth.
I remember every glance that passed through me. Every blow—physical and emotional—that carved hollow spaces where love should have lived. I remember the girl I thought would be my everything, who chose my best friend instead. The ultimate betrayal that confirmed what I had always suspected: I was forgettable. Replaceable.
The medical monitor beside me begins its slow, inevitable descent.
Beep... …Beep… ...Beep…
Each sound is a countdown. A metronome marking the final moments of a life lived in shadows.
I wonder—absurdly, pathetically—if anyone will come to my funeral. Will they even notice I'm gone? Or will I fade away like I've lived: quietly, without ripple or remembrance?
My eyes grow heavy. The pain that has been my constant companion begins to dissolve, becoming something distant. Almost peaceful.
And for the first time in years, I feel something approaching tranquility.
Just as darkness begins to embrace me, the world... shifts.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The ceiling above me doesn't crack. It shatters—like a mirror struck by an invisible force. The beeping stops. The pain vanishes.
My body feels weightless, suspended in something warm and infinite. The hospital room dissolves into a vast, pure whiteness. No walls. No boundaries. Just endless, luminous space.
And then—a voice.
Not thunderous. Not overwhelming. But ancient. Impossibly soft.
"You endured."
The words aren't spoken. They're felt. Resonating through every fiber of my being.
"Cast aside. Forgotten. Yet you did not curse the world that rejected you."
I want to respond, but I have no mouth. No physical form. Just pure consciousness.
The voice continues, each word a gentle caress of understanding.
"Many souls would have broken. Turned bitter. Vengeful. But you… you remained unbroken."
A warmth begins to pulse around me. Not heat. Not light. But something more fundamental. More alive.
"You deserve more than the life that was given to you."
"A second chance."
"A life where your name will be yours alone."
Soft radiance blossoms—gentle, all-encompassing. Healing.
And then, I fall.
Not into darkness.
But into something entirely new.
Into possibility.