Title: Until the Day I Die
The city outside his window hummed with a life that felt alien—cars honking in distant frustration, laughter spilling from a late-night convenience store, the soft drone of a neighbor's TV through thin walls. But inside his cramped apartment, silence reigned like a tomb already sealed.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the peeling wallpaper, laptop open but untouched. The screen reflected his hollow eyes—dark circles like bruises, pupils wide with exhaustion and something deeper, something unnameable. Not rage. Not sadness. Just… absence. A void where hope used to live.
He'd tried to write earlier. A letter? A confession? A goodbye? But every word felt like a performance, and he was so damn tired of performing.
So instead, he spoke to the empty room, voice low and raw, as if the walls might finally listen.
> "So… finally, I've come to an end."
He laughed—short, bitter, like a cough.
> "And I don't think I can continue anymore. And… it's alright."
He repeated it like a mantra. *It's alright. It's alright.* But the words cracked on the second try.
> "It's just… I hope everyone stays healthy and happy. That's all I want."
His fingers trembled as he ran them through his tangled hair.
> "Damn… fuck it. Why should I hide how I feel here? I don't love anyone. Or anything."
A pause. The kind that swallows time whole.
> "If there's a God… I hope my soul gets destroyed. Not punished. Not reborn. Just… erased. Wiped clean. I don't want another life. Not after this one. I'm the worst sinner—I declare it myself."
He wasn't religious. But tonight, he needed someone—*anyone*—to hear his verdict.
> "I'm used for my position. Not for my care. And yeah… it's my fault. I let it happen. But I just… I just wanted someone to *see* me. To appreciate me for trying. Not call it a stunt. Not roll their eyes and say, 'Oh, here he goes again, overacting for attention.'"
His voice broke. Not into sobs—no, the worst part was he *couldn't* cry. His body had run dry.
> "Who even gives a shit? I'm dying inside, and no one notices. So… let's chill. Let's get ready. The pain of not being able to cry? It's unbearable."
He stared at a photo on his desk—his parents, smiling on a beach years ago. His girlfriend, mid-laugh, holding a coffee cup. Friends with their arms slung over each other's shoulders, frozen in a moment of joy he no longer recognized.
> "I just want them to think I died happily. Not in pain. Not like this."
He glanced around the room—bare shelves, a single chair, a mattress on the floor.
> "I should start giving away my stuff… but… ah, fuck. I forgot. I'm poor. I don't have shit."
A dry, hollow laugh escaped him.
> "Hahahaha… It's alright."
He whispered the phrase like a lullaby.
> "This 'it's alright'? It's just an easing method. A trick. But… whatever."
Then, a flicker—faint, but there.
> "I'm thinking of writing a book. Publishing it. Yeah, I know… shitty idea. But it's the last thing I wanna do before I leave. Before I disappoint every single one of them with my unworthy death."
He sighed, long and slow, like he was exhaling his last breath early.
> "Tsk tsk tsk… Well. Let's end this for today."
He checked the time on his phone.
October 23, 2025. 10:56 PM.
> "Let's do this… until the day I die."
He closed the laptop. The room went darker. Outside, the city kept living—unaware, uncaring. But in that small, silent space, a story had just begun. Not one of heroes or magic, but of a boy who felt invisible… and decided to write himself into existence one last time.
Maybe someone would read it.
Maybe someone would understand.
Maybe… it wouldn't be too late.
But for now, the night stretched ahead—long, cold, and quiet.
And he was still here.
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Next: "The First Page"
>Author's Note: If you're reading this and feeling even a fraction of what the protagonist feels—please reach out. You are not alone. Your life matters, even when it doesn't feel like it. Talk to someone. A friend. A stranger. A helpline. You deserve to be heard.