Morning comes like a punishment.
The alarm buzzes at 5:30, its shrill cry dragging me from a sleep so shallow it might as well not have happened. My body aches from yesterday's routine: school, work, chores, repeat. I swing my legs off the mattress and sit there for a while, staring at the floorboards. Dust has gathered in the corners, and one plank creaks whenever I shift my weight. I don't fix it. What's the point?
The city outside is already alive. Car horns echo through the cracked window, mingling with the distant roar of someone testing their abilities in the morning air. Fireworks of power paint the skyline daily. Bursts of flame, arcs of lightning, waves of force. Even at this hour, the extraordinary makes itself known.
I shuffle to the kitchen and boil water for instant noodles. Breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner if I'm too tired to cook. The refrigerator hums like an exhausted old man, filled with little more than leftovers and cheap vegetables.
Before I leave, I peek into my mother's room. She's asleep, curled awkwardly against the twisted shape of her spine. Her breath catches in her throat, then releases. My chest tightens, but I force myself to smile, even if she can't see it.
"Back later," I whisper.
Then I step into the world I hate.
School is a battlefield.
Not in the exciting way my novels describe, where blades clash and qi collides. This battlefield is quieter, crueler. Here, you don't die by the sword—you die by the way people look at you.
The hallways are loud with laughter and chatter. Students brag about their latest ability tests. One boy shows off how he can coat his fist in rock, smashing a dent into the locker door. A girl lets sparks dance across her fingertips, dazzling her friends. Their voices swell with pride, dripping with arrogance.
When I pass by, the air changes. Conversations falter, replaced by whispers. Some don't bother whispering.
"There he is."
"Null."
"Can't believe he still comes here."
Their eyes rake over me like knives, not even sharp enough to kill—just enough to scrape, again and again, leaving invisible cuts that never heal. I keep my gaze low, but it doesn't matter. You can feel disgust without seeing it.
I head to my locker. It's not locked—there's nothing worth stealing. The inside is filled with trash that wasn't mine. Empty drink cans, gum wrappers, a crumpled piece of paper with a single word scrawled across it: Useless.
I clean it out silently.
Class is worse.
The teachers pretend to be fair, but fairness is an illusion when power defines everything. Today we practice ability synchronization. Everyone stands in neat rows, channeling their gifts as instructed. Flames bloom, winds swirl, water condenses, earth rumbles. The classroom becomes a display of endless potential.
I stand at the back, empty-handed. Always empty-handed.
The teacher doesn't even call on me. He knows. Everyone knows.
"Step aside," he says, not unkindly, but with the flat tone of dismissal. "Don't disrupt the others."
Don't disrupt. Don't exist. Don't try.
So I stand and watch while they create beauty, destruction, miracles. I am the still shadow in the corner, the ghost in the room.
Someone snickers. A boy with sharp eyes and a cruel mouth. "What's it like, watching everyone else actually be someone?"
His friends laugh. Their powers crackle in their hands like applause for his cruelty.
I don't respond. Words are wasted here.
Lunchtime offers no reprieve. The cafeteria is alive with chatter, tables crowded with groups. I carry my tray of plain rice and watery soup to the farthest corner. Alone. Always alone.
Halfway through, something hits the back of my head. A piece of bread, stale and hard.
"Oops," someone says mockingly. "Didn't see you there, ghost-boy."
Laughter follows. Heads turn. Some watch with amusement, others with disinterest. None with sympathy.
I clench my fists under the table. The bread sits on the floor, untouched, a symbol of what I am to them—trash not worth picking up.
No one intervenes. No one ever does.
The day drags on, each class another reminder of what I lack. By the final bell, I'm already hollow, as if someone scooped out everything inside me and left only skin to walk home.
Outside, groups of students gather, showing off their powers in casual displays. A girl conjures butterflies made of light, their wings shimmering as they scatter. A boy lifts himself a few inches off the ground, laughing as his friends cheer.
I walk past them. They don't stop me. They don't need to. Their laughter is louder than any insult.
Home is supposed to be safe.
But when I close the door behind me, drop my bag, and sit on my bed, the silence crashes down. My mother is asleep again, worn out from the simplest of tasks. The apartment hums with the dull rhythm of the refrigerator and the distant city.
I lie back, staring at the cracked ceiling. The same stains. The same silence. The same weight pressing down.
My chest tightens. My throat burns. I press my palms into my eyes, but it doesn't stop the tears. They come hot and bitter, soaking into my sleeves as I curl on the mattress.
"I hate this," I whisper into the emptiness. "I hate my life. I hate it."
The words dissolve in the dark, swallowed by the walls. No one hears them. No one cares.
In the stories I read, despair is the spark before the breakthrough. The hero cries once, then rises, unstoppable.
But this isn't a story.
This is just another day.
And tomorrow will be the same.