The morning air was thick with a silence I could almost taste—bitter, heavy, and suffocating. My room, if you could call it that, was a battlefield of unpaid bills, broken dreams, and crumpled fast-food wrappers. A single ray of sunlight crept through the torn curtain, mocking me with its warmth. I hadn’t slept in days.

She was gone.

Not just physically—her presence had vanished, her voice, the spark in her eyes—everything was now just a memory, fading. She left when the world decided to test how much I could take. And truthfully, I couldn’t blame her. Who stays when the man they once believed in can barely believe in himself?

The apartment was a mess of half-finished projects, broken promises, and empty bottles. The buzzing of the fridge was the only sound, a constant reminder of the life I had once tried to build. But now, it felt like everything was slowly decaying, just like my hopes. Everything was too far gone.

I reached for my phone, hoping for a message that wouldn’t come. The screen stared back at me, empty—just like my bank account. I swiped through a few old photos of us—moments frozen in time. We never stayed the night together, never shared the kind of intimacy most couples did. Our relationship had always been fleeting, filled with stolen moments, late-night talks, and kisses that seemed to mean everything at the time. But it wasn’t enough to hold on to her.

She had left me at my lowest.

No words, no explanation—just a final message that had burned itself into my mind. “I can’t do this anymore. I need more than you can offer.” I tried to fight it, tried to show her that things could get better, that I could fix myself, but there were no more second chances.

I stood up from the bed, the ache in my chest growing more intense. What was the point of all of this anymore? I had no job, no girlfriend, and no future. The weight of failure pressed down on me like a thousand-pound boulder. I looked around the room at the remnants of my life, the piles of debt I couldn’t escape. Even my parents had stopped calling after the hundredth time I had failed to live up to their expectations. They gave up on me a long time ago.

There was no going back now. I was at rock bottom. There was no “next step.” No plan. Just darkness.

I stumbled toward the window, hoping for some kind of clarity, but all I saw was the same familiar city skyline. The world outside kept moving, spinning in a rhythm I no longer belonged to. People had jobs, families, dreams—and I had… nothing. I was invisible, a shadow moving through a world that didn’t care about me.

I closed my eyes and tried to steady my breath. The sharp pain in my chest didn’t go away. I couldn’t make it go away.

But just as I was about to give up, a thought flickered in my mind—a thought so quiet I almost missed it. Maybe it’s not over. Maybe there’s something here, something left to fight for.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The morning sun pierced through the thin curtains of my room, highlighting the scattered textbooks I never opened. Another day, another pointless journey to a college that barely taught me anything. I had once believed education would be my ticket out of this life, but now it felt like just another broken promise.

I dragged myself out of bed and threw on the same hoodie I wore every other day. No one cared how I looked, and honestly, neither did I. My stomach grumbled, but there was nothing to eat—just an empty fridge that mocked me every time I opened it.

The walk to college was uneventful, just like the classes. Professors droned on about concepts that felt more disconnected from reality than my bank account. I sat in the back, staring at the peeling paint on the walls, wondering how I got here.

During breaks, I’d sit alone, scrolling through social media. My classmates laughed in groups, their conversations filled with weekend plans and trendy clothes. They didn’t see me, and I didn’t want them to. Their world felt like a different planet, one I couldn’t afford to visit.

By the time I got back to my room, the day had drained me, even though I hadn’t done anything productive. I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing with questions I couldn’t answer. Why did I keep going to college if it wasn’t helping? Why didn’t I have the guts to drop out and figure things out on my own?

The only thing I could count on was the suffocating cycle of existing without really living. Nights were the hardest. The silence pressed down on me, and the darkness seemed to stretch forever. I wanted more—more than this room, more than this life—but I didn’t know how to get it.

Tomorrow would be the same.

Days had started blending together. College, my room, and the endless hours spent staring at the walls. It wasn’t that I didn’t have dreams—it was the weight of knowing I didn’t have the means to reach them.

I slumped into my chair after another lifeless day at college. Professors lectured on subjects I couldn’t bring myself to care about, and assignments piled up like they held any meaning. My classmates seemed to have it figured out—or at least they pretended to. Me? I went through the motions, pretending too, but it was all hollow.

My phone buzzed, a message lighting up the screen. It wasn’t a surprise. Girls from mangatoon or random acquaintances often texted me, and I replied—sometimes to keep the conversation going, sometimes just to fill the silence of my room. I didn’t have much else to do.

“Hey, Tarzan, what’s up?” one of the texts read.

I leaned back, debating whether to respond. Eventually, I typed out something vague, “Not much, just chilling in the jungle. You?” These exchanges rarely went anywhere meaningful, but they were enough to kill time.

Another ping. “Why don’t you ever call?” I chuckled at the screen. Calls were too intimate, too real. Texts allowed me to stay detached, to engage without actually opening up. That’s how I liked it.

The night deepened, and my small room grew quieter. My chair creaked as I shifted, staring at the cluttered desk in front of me. It was covered with unopened textbooks, crumpled papers, and an old notebook where I’d once written down my goals. I picked it up, flipping through the pages.

Start a business. Save money. Move out. The words felt like a cruel joke now. I tossed the notebook aside and sighed, running a hand through my hair.

I grabbed my phone again, scrolling through old chats. One girl had sent me a photo of her dog earlier. I had replied with a casual “Cute,” and she’d responded with laughing emojis. Another asked me what I’d eaten for dinner, and I gave a half-truth, saying, “Oh, just some noodles.” I hadn’t eaten anything, but it was easier to lie.

I paused for a moment, staring at the blank ceiling. These conversations didn’t mean much. They were distractions, placeholders in a life that felt like it was stuck on pause.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a girl asking, “What do you even do all day?” I smirked, typing back, “Exist, mostly. You?”

Her reply came quickly: “You’re funny.” Funny. If only she knew how empty the joke really was.

The hours ticked by, and the room grew colder. I didn’t feel tired, but I knew sleep would come eventually—when my mind was too exhausted to keep replaying the same thoughts.

As the first light of dawn crept into the room, I stared out the window, wondering if tomorrow would be any different. Maybe one day, I’d stop replying to meaningless texts and start replying to my own life.