Time passed.
Years, actually.
The days blurred together, a slow, unrelenting crawl that stretched into months, then seasons, then full, calendar years. Since the day my father died, everything slowly… changed. It didn't happen all at once, like a door slamming shut. It was a gradual erosion, a quiet fading of the world I had once known.
We eventually won the case against the company. It was a small victory, years too late. I remember sitting in the lawyer's office, the air thick with the smell of old paper and dust, as he handed us a check. The number on it was generous, a sum that promised to erase the debt, pay for my father's funeral, and even secure our future. It was probably just corporate damage control, a desperate attempt to protect their reputation masked as compensation. The lawyer called it "justice." My mother wept into her hands. But what's the point?
The one person we needed most was already gone, and no amount of money could bring him back. The check felt like a cruel joke, a receipt for a life that was priceless. Still, money is money—the world's most convenient solution to problems and the best answer to the questions no one wants to ask out loud.
With the settlement, life got easier. Bills were paid. The suffocating pressure on our shoulders finally lightened. And, as always, the world kept moving. It never stops for anyone. Not for grief. Not for loss.
With the new financial stability, a path forward finally opened up. One of my old schoolteachers—a kind man who had known about my family's situation—pulled strings and wrote letters of recommendation. Thanks to him, I got accepted into a decent university to study computer science. It was a path I hadn't expected to take, a future I had abandoned, but it was there, waiting.
My mother started speaking to me again. So did my little brother. We began sharing meals at the kitchen table, the silence no longer a suffocating wall but a comfortable quiet. We smiled. We talked.
For a moment, it almost felt normal. But not for me. I couldn't feel it—the return to normalcy. I was still stuck somewhere behind, a ghost in the machine, chasing after a version of myself I had long since abandoned. I saw my family healing, moving on, and it only served to highlight how broken I still was.
Then came the news. Two years after everything… my mother decided to remarry. Her new partner was a colleague from work—a kind man, older, with a soft-spoken sincerity that made him seem smaller than he was. He'd lost his wife years ago. A widower. A survivor of pain, just like her.
"Two broken souls, finding shelter in each other's quiet," people whispered. And honestly? They were probably right. I knew, even in my numb state, that sometimes it's easier to share your pain with strangers than with those closest to you. There's no guilt with strangers. No burden of expectation to be the person you once were.
I wanted to oppose it. I wanted to scream, What about Dad? But I couldn't. Because I met the man. And he was… good. Mature. Warm. The kind of man who made silence feel safe, not suffocating. He didn't try to replace my father. He just... existed. So how could I say no?
What right did I have to interfere when I was the one who couldn't even bring a single smile back into our home? What could I say, when all I ever did was remind everyone of what we lost?
I was the ghost in the family. The walking memory. The quiet reminder of all the pain they wanted to leave behind. And maybe… maybe what they needed wasn't me anymore. Maybe they needed someone who could help them forget.
Things moved forward—almost too smoothly. The two souls, both scarred by loss, were given permission to heal. And so, the marriage took place. It was a simple ceremony. Small, quiet, sincere.
Close friends and a handful of family members gathered to offer their blessings. There were smiles all around—some even accompanied by tears, not of grief this time, but of joy.
I was there, too. Dressed in a clean black suit, standing among the guests. I smiled like the rest of them. I even congratulated them, took photos, bowed politely. To anyone watching, I was just another happy face in the crowd. But inside?
Inside, I was hollow. There was nothing behind that smile. Nothing beneath the polished shoes or neatly combed hair. Just a mask—well-practiced, perfectly worn. No one saw the truth. No one noticed how empty I had become. And honestly… maybe that was for the best.
After the wedding, I started living separately. It wasn't like I cut ties completely. I still visited—once or twice a month—offering flimsy excuses about college work, upcoming projects, or weekend assignments. Just enough to keep them satisfied. Just enough to keep the questions away. I eventually graduated with a degree in computer science. Didn't chase a PhD, didn't dream big. I took a decent job offer—good pay, average hours, tolerable coworkers. That was enough.
I tried a few things in between—dating, romance, relationships. None of it ever really clicked. The only thing that truly comforted me anymore was being alone.
A few cigarettes. A bit of alcohol. And the silence of broken thoughts that filled my empty room. At some point, I picked up reading web novels. I started escaping into stories—fantasies where people like me were heroes, villains, or something in between. That fake world made more sense than this one ever did.
I'm 23 now. But the feeling of being an abandoned child… never really left. I'm still that boy—stuck somewhere in between. Not hated. Not unloved. Just… overlooked. My mother had loved my father deeply. That much I know. My little brother was always the favorite—Mom's golden boy, Dad's pride. The youngest always gets the spotlight. And me? I was somewhere in the middle. Loved, yes… but not enough to feel it. I remember not even liking my father much. He was dull.
Boring. Always working. No fun. No warmth. Other kids had cool dads—muscular, charming, rich, stylish. I had… him. Maybe that's why I never really mourned like the others. Still, I ask myself—why am I the only one who hasn't moved on? It's been five years now.
Everyone seems happy. Everyone's settled. So why the fuck am I still here?
Lately… strange thoughts have started to crawl into my mind. Weird things.
Unsettling questions. A shift in how I see the world. Piece by piece, reality has started to lose its color. Like the world beside me is quietly fading to gray. And I'm the only one left… still watching.
In my eyes, everyday life had lost its shape. Each morning bled into the next—dull, gray, lifeless. The world itself looked faded, like someone had drained the color out of it on purpose. The taste of my coffee, the sound of the traffic, the feel of my phone in my hand—it was all muted.
No matter where I went, no matter who I met, everything felt like a scene set in grayscale. Even I had changed. Bit by bit.
I stopped caring about appearances. My wardrobe became a rotation of black and white—safe, neutral, invisible. Color felt… foreign. Like it didn't belong to me anymore.
But something changed. That day, while driving down a quiet, ordinary road, it happened. An accident. A group of wild rabbits had wandered onto the highway. I saw the blur, heard the screech, and then silence. One didn't make it. I slowed down—not out of concern, but something else. Something I couldn't explain. And then I saw it. The rabbit lay motionless on the asphalt, its soft fur tousled by the wind. Its small body was broken, crushed, yet oddly peaceful. And surrounding it… Red.
A splash of red on the cold, gray road. Bright. Vivid. Alive. It was the first color I'd seen in a long time. It wasn't the blood itself that fascinated me. Not the gore.
Not the violence. It was death. There was something beautiful in its stillness. In the way the world continued around it—cars passing, tires indifferent. The soft, brown feathers from its body danced with the breeze like nothing had happened.
But I saw it. And for a fleeting moment, everything around me stopped. And I could finally see again. I saw beauty in death. A missing piece I had never noticed before—something that had always eluded me, hiding in plain sight.
But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it. The stillness. The peace. The silence. I wanted it. I wanted to become a part of it.
My life had long since rotted into a dull, monotonous loop—gray mornings, silent nights, and a hollow stretch of nothing in between. But then, for the first time in years, I found a purpose.
To die.
To be free.
Not in a dramatic, tragic-romantic sort of way. No violins. No poetic notes left behind. Just… done. Finished. Over. Like deleting a file from your desktop without sending it to the recycle bin first.
And it's not like I hadn't tried. God, I've tried.
The first time, I just wanted to feel something—anything. The cold kiss of a razor, the thin line of pain I thought I craved. But the blade dulled instantly in my hand. Not once. Not twice. Every damn time. Even brand-new ones—fresh out of the packaging, still smelling faintly of factory oil—would skid uselessly across my skin like I was made of Teflon.
Fine, I thought. Knives don't work? Let's drink our way out.
A bottle of pills. A bottle of bleach. Didn't matter. I'd bring it to my lips, my hands shaking with anticipation, and somehow—always at the last second—it would spill. A perfect, impossible accident. The bleach bottle tipping over and splashing the table, the pills scattering in every direction like they'd been given orders to flee. Leaving me with nothing but a bitter taste and the humiliation of cleaning up my own failed exit.
Then there was the rope. Perfect knot. Sturdy chair. No room for error. And yet—snap. Not after ten minutes, not after a few seconds—right at the moment my weight hit. Once, it actually held… and that's when my landlady decided to show up, unannounced, with a plate of burnt cookies and the timing of a divine prankster.
Even jumping didn't work. I stood on the edge of a high-rise, wind in my face, ready for that long, clean drop into oblivion. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, stepped forward—and when I opened them, there it was: a truck full of pillows parked neatly beneath me. A literal truck of pillows. The kind you'd see in a kid's cartoon. Soft, white, absurd. And I swear on everything, it wasn't there thirty seconds earlier.
That's when I knew.
It wasn't bad luck. It wasn't clumsiness. It wasn't hesitation.
Something was stopping me.
Something that didn't want me dead.
I've tried over a hundred times now. Different places. Different methods. Different states of mind. None of them worked. I could write a manual—One Hundred Ways to Die: A Field Guide for Complete Failure. At this point, I'm not even suicidal. I'm just exhausted. Exhausted from existing in a world that clearly doesn't want me, but refuses to let me leave.
Whatever's out there—call it fate, God, or some twisted cosmic comedian—it's watching. And it's not letting go.
Which brings me to tonight.
I'm on the rooftop of a tall building. Not metaphorically. Literally. Walking the narrow metal railing like it's a casual stroll in the park. When you've stood here as many times as I have, you stop fearing heights. Your body just… knows. Balance becomes second nature.
I sat down on the rail, legs dangling over the city's glittering skyline. The night view was mesmerizing, even if all I saw was gray. Gray buildings. Gray lights. Gray life. I pulled out a cigarette and placed it between my lips. The wind up here made it almost impossible to light. Figures.
Even the lighter seemed to mock me. But what caught my eye wasn't the flame.
My gaze had already drifted down, and I saw them again.
A truck full of pillows—parked right beneath the building.
Swear to God, it wasn't there a minute ago.
See? That's what I've been telling you. Every time. Every single damn time.
I flicked the lighter again. And again. Each click sharper than the last, until finally—
The flame held.
I raised the cigarette to my lips, drew in deep.
The minty bitterness spread across my tongue, the warmth filling my lungs in slow, deliberate waves. I held it there. Too long. Until the burn started to bite. Then I let the smoke go, curling into the cold air like it was trying to escape me.
It didn't calm me.
It never does.
Not anymore.
Still, in this moment—this fragile, hollow moment—at least I was alone. Or so I told myself.
Then—
Clack.
The sound of a door opening behind me sliced through the air.
The rusty creak of the hinges, drawn out and aching, was a sound I'd already come to associate with failure. It was too late. I was caught again.
I didn't turn around. I didn't have to. I already knew what I would see.
"Evan! What the hell are you doing?!"