The mask slipped the moment he turned the corner.
Artham's cheerful smile dissolved like sugar in rain, leaving behind the familiar weight of nothing. His footsteps echoed down the dimly lit corridor—hollow sounds for a hollow boy. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across his face like broken promises.
Around him, voices buzzed with the relentless persistence of flies. Students clustered in groups, their conversations bleeding into one another, creating a symphony of meaningless noise. But one name cut through the cacophony, sharp and unwelcome.
The Boy From Yesterday's Future.
The words hit him like a physical blow, though his expression never changed. They were discussing the show—that global phenomenon about a young man cursed with the ability to mimic any skill, to become anyone except himself. The perfect performance, the endless applause, the suffocating spotlight.
Today, the usual excitement had curdled into something else. Whispers followed him down the hall like accusations: He wants to quit. He's tired. He can't take it anymore.
Artham's jaw tightened. These children, these naive, sheltered souls—what did they know about cages made of expectations? What did they understand about drowning in the very thing that made others worship you?
He quickened his pace, fists clenching and unclenching in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. The library doors loomed ahead like sanctuary gates, promising silence, promising escape from the noise of those who could never understand.
The heavy doors swung shut behind him with finality. Here, in the cathedral of books and dust, he could breathe again. The smell of aged paper wrapped around him like an old friend's embrace—familiar, comforting, safe.
His eyes swept the empty spaces until they found what he sought: a corner forgotten by the world, where even the light seemed hesitant to intrude. He moved toward it with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of disappearing.
A book called to him from the nearby shelf—or perhaps he called to it. His fingers, those traitorous instruments that had played symphonies for strangers, closed around its spine. Fantasy fiction, slim and unassuming, tucked between academic tomes like a secret waiting to be discovered.
The cover felt warm beneath his palm. Strange. Books were usually cold, clinical things. This one seemed to pulse with hidden life.
He settled into the chair, his body folding into itself like origami made of exhaustion. The pages whispered as he turned them, revealing a story that made his breath catch in his throat.
A boy. A game. A world where death meant nothing because life meant everything. Where each failure was a chance to rise stronger, to fight harder, to matter more. The hero lived in cycles—death and rebirth, fall and rise, despair and hope.
The words blurred and sharpened, blurred and sharpened, as if the book itself was breathing. Artham's fingers gripped the edges of the pages, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on to something real.
And then, buried in the middle of a paragraph like a knife between ribs, he found it:
Are you satisfied with your life?
The question exploded in his mind like a star going supernova. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo through the library's silence. The words hung in the air, suspended between him and the rest of the world like a guillotine blade.
Was he satisfied?
The question was a mirror, and he hated what he saw in it. His life—that carefully constructed performance, that beautiful lie—crumbled to dust in the face of such simple honesty.
What would satisfaction look like? What would it feel like to wake up wanting to be awake? To smile because joy demanded it, not because the script required it? To live without the constant weight of other people's expectations pressing down on him like a stone?
The truth was a wound that never healed: he was a passenger in his own existence. His parents, his managers, his teachers—they all had plans for him, dreams for him, expectations of him. But what did he want? What did he dream?
He couldn't remember the last time he had chosen anything for himself. Every decision was filtered through the question: What do they want from me? Every word was carefully measured, every expression calculated for maximum effect.
He was a puppet, and they were all pulling his strings.
The emptiness inside him wasn't just an absence—it was a presence. A living thing that fed on his achievements and grew stronger with each hollow victory. It sat in his chest like a black hole, consuming light and hope and leaving nothing but void.
He had everything and nothing. He was everyone and no one.
The applause meant nothing. The praise was white noise. The love felt like duty.
He was seventeen years old and already dead inside.
Another day lost to overthinking, he told himself, checking his watch. Nearly eleven. Time moved differently when you were drowning in your own thoughts.
Then, soft as a whisper, familiar as his own heartbeat, a melody drifted through the air. Chopin's Nocturne in C Sharp Minor—those haunting notes that had once been his salvation and had become his prison.
The memories crashed over him like a tsunami, carrying him back to a time when he still believed in magic.
Five years old. The piano bench cold beneath his legs. Cameras flashing like lightning, capturing every moment of his miraculous performance. His tiny hands dancing across the keys with impossible skill, creating beauty from nothing but movement and intention.
The audience held its breath. His parents glowed with pride. The world watched in wonder as a child became a legend.
He remembered the feeling of the piano keys beneath his fingers, familiar and comforting. He had taught himself to play by watching others, mimicking their techniques until it became second nature. Every performance was flawless. Every note, perfect. The audience marveled at his brilliance. He could hear their applause even before he began.
But it was all an illusion.
With each press of the keys, the melody flowed from him effortlessly, but what the world saw as brilliance was nothing more than a hollow performance. Behind the calmness he showed, behind the confidence that wowed the audience, there was nothing. No excitement, no joy. Just a void. The notes meant nothing to him—just motions he had memorized, a skill perfected to meet others' expectations.
He played flawlessly, as he always did, while his parents smiled proudly from the sidelines. The audience was captivated, showering him with admiration, but he felt nothing. The truth—the ugly, undeniable truth—was that it was all a lie. A beautiful, glittering lie that crumbled to dust the moment it touched his soul. And yet, no one noticed. No one saw through the facade.
Even then, he knew he was lying. Every note was a lie. Every smile was a lie. Every bow was a lie.
And everyone believed.
The memory shattered like glass, leaving him back in the present, back in the library, back in the suffocating reality of his existence.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. The book fell closed with a soft thud, its question still burning in his mind.
As he moved to return it to its place on the shelf, a commotion caught his attention. Ms. Lawrence—Lisa—was there, searching through the books with the frantic energy of someone who had lost something precious.
"I swear I hid it here... Where did it go?" she whispered, her usually composed demeanor cracking like paint on an old wall.
Artham approached her with the predatory silence of a cat. "Hello, Ms. Lawrence. Looking for something?"
She spun around, her eyes wide with something that might have been fear. They fell on the book in his hands, and her face went pale.
"Oh, Artham!" The words tumbled out too quickly, too desperately. "Yes, I was... just looking for a special book."
Interesting. He raised an eyebrow, noting the tremor in her voice, the way her hands shook. "I assume this is it?" He held up the fantasy novel, watching her face carefully. "I didn't know you were interested in this genre."
Her smile was a broken thing, held together by will and desperation. "Oh, no, no. It's not for me. It's for my... my son!"
A son. Something about the way she said it—the hesitation, the tremor in her voice—made him pause. Her body language screamed deception, but why would she lie about something so simple? What was it about this book that made her so desperate?
"Of course," he said, his voice gentle as he handed over the book. "He's lucky to have such a thoughtful mother."
She clutched the book to her chest like a shield, her fingers white-knuckled with the effort of holding on. "Thank you," she whispered, then fled like a woman running from ghosts.
Artham watched her go, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She's not just reading fantasy, he thought. She's living it.
"Hey, Artham!"
The voice hit him like a physical blow, shattering his moment of dark amusement. He turned to see Julia barreling toward him, her red ribbon bouncing in her brown hair like a flag of false cheer.
Julia—class president, social butterfly, collector of other people's talents. She radiated the kind of aggressive optimism that made him want to crawl into a hole and never emerge.
"Hi, Artham! I've been looking everywhere for you," she said, slightly out of breath from her sprint across the library. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Of course you did. "What is it?" he asked, his voice warm and curious.
She produced a flyer from her pocket with the flourish of a magician revealing a rabbit. It was bright, gaudy, covered in cheerful fonts and stock photos of performers. A talent show.
"You should sign up for this! I know you're really talented, Artham," she said, her eyes bright with the kind of admiration that made his skin crawl. "Your records show you've got quite the impressive background. You'd be perfect for this!"
There it is. The familiar weight of his documented achievements following him like a shadow. Even here, in this new place, he couldn't escape what he'd done, what he'd accomplished, what everyone expected him to be.
"A talent show? That sounds fun!" he said, his voice carrying just the right amount of enthusiasm. "Though I have to admit, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable performing in front of everyone. I'm still getting used to being the new guy."
"Oh, come on! Don't be modest," Julia continued, practically bouncing with excitement. "With your background, you could probably do anything! Music, languages, sports - you name it! You'd win for sure!"
You could do anything. The words hit him like a familiar punch to the gut. If only she knew that doing everything meant feeling nothing.
"That's really flattering, Julia," he said, his smile never faltering. "But honestly, I think I'd rather just focus on settling in first. Maybe next time?"
Julia's smile flickered, but she pressed on. "But why? Don't you want to share your talents with everyone? You should be proud of what you can do, right?"
Proud. The word was a slap across the face, but he absorbed it without flinching. "Oh, I am proud," he said, his voice warm and genuine-sounding. "It's just... well, performing can be a bit overwhelming sometimes. I hope you understand."
She pressed on, her voice taking on that familiar edge he'd heard so many times before. "You have a duty to share your talents with the world. It's selfish to hide away what others would kill to have. You should be grateful."
Grateful. The final insult. In his imagination, he saw himself standing up, his cheerful mask finally cracking. He saw himself looking Julia dead in the eye, his voice cold and sharp: "You don't understand, Julia. You don't know what it's like to be me. To have the ability to do anything but feel nothing. To be admired by everyone, but care for no one. I have no dream, no purpose. I'm just... hollow."
He imagined her recoiling, eyes wide with disbelief. "Monotonous? How can you say that? You have a rare gift!"
And in his fantasy, he would lean closer, his voice dropping to a whisper: "Write my name, and shove your stupid flyer up your ass."
He imagined the look on her face—the shock, the crimson flush, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.
But even in his imagination, the anger felt hollow, like an echo of an emotion he should have but couldn't quite access. He was angry, yes, but it was the anger of a shadow, the rage of someone who had forgotten how to truly feel.
In reality, his smile remained bright and warm. "You're absolutely right, Julia," he said, his voice honey-sweet. "I am grateful for the opportunity. Maybe I'll think about it and get back to you?"
"Really?" Julia's face lit up with hope.
"Really," he lied, taking the flyer from her hands with gentle fingers. "I'll definitely consider it."
But something in his tone made her pause. For just a moment, she looked at him more carefully, as if seeing something that didn't quite fit. "Are you... are you okay, Artham? You seem a little tired."
Tired. If only she knew. "Just adjusting to the new school," he said, his smile never wavering. "Thanks for asking though. You're really sweet."
She nodded, still looking slightly uncertain, but the moment passed. She bounced away to collect more victims for her talent show, leaving him alone with his performance.
The moment she was gone, the flyer found its way into the nearest trash can, and his smile finally faded into the familiar emptiness that was his constant companion.
The brief conversation with Julia had drained him more than he cared to admit. Even maintaining his cheerful mask for those few minutes felt like running a marathon while holding his breath.
The hallway stretched before him like a metaphor for his life—long, empty, leading nowhere. His footsteps echoed in the silence, a lonely rhythm that matched the beating of his hollow heart.
He was a star burning out, brilliant on the surface but cold and dead inside. A beautiful lie wrapped in flesh and bone, performing for an audience that would never truly see him.
The accolades in his room gathered dust like tombstones, marking the death of dreams he had never been allowed to have. Trophies and certificates and awards—all meaningless now, all hollow victories in a war he had never wanted to fight.
He had accomplished everything and nothing. He was everyone's favorite and nobody's friend. He was a masterpiece and a tragedy, a success and a failure, a genius and a fool.
He was seventeen years old and already tired of being alive.
As he walked toward the cafeteria, his eyes fell on a blank wall—colorless, lifeless, devoid of meaning. It reminded him of himself, waiting for someone to paint it with purpose, to give it reason to exist.
Maybe I'm the blank canvas, he thought, waiting for someone to make me real.
But who would paint a boy made of shadows? Who would waste their colors on someone who couldn't even see them?
The wall stared back at him with its empty face, offering no answers, no hope, no salvation. Just like everything else in his life.
He had tasted every flavor the world had to offer—love, friendship, betrayal, success, failure. He had even tasted the darker things, the forbidden fruits that left stains on the soul. Two lives, taken in a moment of perfect clarity, in a breath between heartbeats.
But even that—even the ultimate transgression—had failed to wake him from his slumber. He remained numb, untouched, unreachable.
There was nothing left that could move him in this world. Nothing left that could make him feel.
He was hollow, and hollow he would remain.
The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it felt like coming home.