Shadows of Ambition

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.

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