At twenty one, his life looked exactly the way people promised it would not.
He woke up in a narrow rented room that smelled faintly of detergent and dust, sunlight leaking through a curtain that never quite closed. The ceiling fan hummed above him, uneven in its rhythm, as if it too was tired. His phone lay face down on the desk beside the bed. No notifications. No messages. Nothing urgent enough to require him to exist.
He stared at the ceiling longer than necessary, not because he was lost in thought, but because getting up meant remembering everything all at once.
The internship email had arrived three days ago.
It had been polite. Brief. Final.
"Due to restructuring, we regret to inform you…"
He had read it once, then again, then left it open on his laptop as if staring at it long enough might reveal a hidden apology. It did not. There was no anger in the message, no blame, no acknowledgment of his effort. Just a quiet removal, like erasing pencil marks.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat there, elbows on his knees, head lowered. His reflection stared back at him from the dark laptop screen. Average height. Slim build. Hair that never quite sat right no matter how often he cut it. A face that did not offend or impress.
Unremarkable was the word people liked to avoid saying. He felt it anyway.
The coffee shop on the corner had become his unofficial office. It was cheaper than sitting at home with his thoughts, and the background noise made his failures feel less loud. He ordered the smallest cup he could justify and chose a table near the window, laptop open, résumé pulled up but untouched.
Outside, the city moved on schedule. Couples passed by, fingers brushing, shoulders leaning together. A girl laughed and leaned into her boyfriend's side as he whispered something into her ear. An older couple shared a quiet moment over matching paper cups, their movements practiced and easy.
He did not feel resentment watching them.
That surprised him sometimes.
There was no bitterness toward women, no sense that the world had denied him something he was owed. He knew better than that. Attraction was not charity. Affection was not a reward for patience.
If anything, the disappointment pointed inward.
He noticed how men spoke louder when he joined conversations. How his opinions were acknowledged only after someone else repeated them. How he could disappear from a group without anyone asking where he went.
He had always been present, never essential.
At university, he had sat at the edge of study groups. In class projects, he took on tasks others avoided. Necessary, but replaceable. In photos, he stood at the side, smiling because it seemed expected.
He tried to remember the last time someone had chosen him first.
Not as a backup. Not as a convenience. Not because everyone else was busy.
The memory did not come.
His phone buzzed briefly. A notification from his bank. He checked it with the dull resignation of someone already expecting disappointment.
Balance: barely enough for rent and groceries if he was careful. No room for mistakes. No buffer for bad days.
He closed the app and set the phone face down again.
Around him, the coffee shop buzzed with low conversations and clinking cups. A couple sat two tables away, knees touching under the small round table. The girl absentmindedly traced circles on her boyfriend's wrist while talking about her day. He listened, nodding, smiling at the right moments.
It was not dramatic. Not passionate. Just comfortable.
That was what hurt the most.
Not longing for some grand romance, but realizing he had never been part of something that felt that easy. Every interaction he had ever had with women carried a faint distance. Polite smiles. Friendly replies. Conversations that ended naturally, without continuation.
He was never rejected outright.
He was simply not selected.
He stared at his blank résumé, cursor blinking at the top like an accusation. He had done everything he was supposed to do. Decent grades. No scandals. No skipped steps. And yet here he was, unemployed at twenty one, future folding in on itself like paper creased too many times.
A thought settled quietly in his chest, heavy and familiar.
He was not failing spectacularly.
He was fading.
When he finally left the café, the afternoon sun had softened. He walked without direction, letting the crowd carry him. At a crosswalk, he stopped beside a woman his age. She smiled politely when their eyes met, then turned back to her phone. A moment later, her boyfriend jogged up, slightly out of breath, apologizing for being late. She laughed, slipped her hand into his, and the light changed.
They crossed together.
He followed a few steps behind, unnoticed.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. A cheap meal eaten alone. A bus ride where no one sat beside him even when seats filled. A group of friends laughing loudly at the back, stories overlapping, energy spilling into the aisle.
He wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be missed.
Back in his room, he lay on the bed with his shoes still on, staring at the wall. The light outside dimmed slowly. Evening crept in, uninvited but inevitable.
His thoughts returned to a single sentence that had followed him for years.
I was never anyone's first choice.
Not in love. Not in work. Not in friendship.
He did not think the world was cruel for it. The world simply moved toward what it wanted, and he had never been what anyone wanted enough.
There was regret there, but it was quiet. It did not scream or demand. It sat with him, patient, like it had all along.
He reached for his phone again, more out of habit than expectation. Still nothing.
Then, as he was about to set it down, the screen lit up.
Unknown Sender.
He frowned. His thumb hovered before tapping.
The message preview showed only a single line.
"Are you still waiting for your first chance?"
His breath caught.
For a moment, the room felt smaller, the hum of the fan louder. He stared at the screen, pulse quickening despite himself. He had no reason to believe it was anything more than spam. And yet, something about the timing, about the words, felt deliberate.
He opened the message.
The screen went white.
Then black.
Then a new line of text appeared.
And the ceiling fan above him stopped spinning.