ALARM BEEPS ALARM BEEPS ALARM BEEPS
A hand slams down on the alarm clock.
Logan lies there, sharply exhaling; exhausted, as if the day is already over. It's 2PM. His curtains are drawn, casting his room in a dim haze. Logan had just woken up after pulling an all-nighter surfing the web, with his monitor still glowing faintly, periodically pulsing in the corner.
Quietly, he stares at the ceiling.
He buffers.
Today is the day to select his classes. Logan has been going to college for three years. He's on his final term. Every day he contemplates dropping out. To be truthful, he prefers spending his time online rather than attending his classes. After buffering for ten minutes, he finally gets up and heads to the kitchen and makes himself a bowl of dry cereal. Back at his desk with a mouthful of food, he sits. The tab with his class portal is still open, waiting. He stares at it blankly for a few seconds. Then,
He closes it.
Opens YouTube.
An hour passes.
Then three.
"I'll figure it out later," he mutters to no one. And then clicks Next Video. The registration deadline passes three days later. Logan notices an email notification. "You have been unenrolled for the upcoming term due to incomplete registration." He doesn't open it. A week quickly goes by, and his mom texts him: "How's the new schedule?"
Logan responds back with: "It's fine." but he doesn't send it. Deletes it and re-types: "Just started, nothing crazy." Sent. Phone face-down. He keeps waking up at 2PM. Keeps telling himself it's just a break. Keeps dodging calls. Keeps watching videos of people doing more with less. A month passes. He's not a student anymore. And no one knows.
Logan starts measuring time by content. Not hours. Not days. Just videos. Streams. Threads. Upload cycles. He falls into the rhythm easily: wake up, open his computer, scroll. Click. Click again. Laugh once. Maybe. Scroll more.
He tells himself he's decompressing. Taking a breather. Riding out the burnout. A lot of people drop out. A lot of people take time to "find themselves." It's normal. Temporary. He doesn't say any of that aloud. He just lets the thoughts echo around the apartment like ambient noise.
Sometimes, late at night, he still checks job listings just to feel something. The monitor glow paints his face in ghost-light. He doesn't apply. Just reads. Team player. Fast-paced environment. Must thrive under pressure. He imagines sitting in a break room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, waiting for a stranger to tell him he's doing everything wrong. Then he closes the tab and watches an old game lore breakdown instead.
The longer he stays offline from real life, the harder it is to imagine ever plugging back in. He eats clean, habitually and out of preservation. Meal prepping allows his mind to think of something else other than the pressures of society. Late night workouts bleed into morning cooldowns. He doesn't let his body fall out of shape, even if everything else has. The room stays clean, making sure discipline still exists. It just doesn't lead anywhere.
There are whole days he goes without speaking. Not from sadness. Just absence. Like a radio left on a dead station. If someone asked what he was doing with his life, he wouldn't know how to answer. But no one asks.
Outside, the seasons changed. Inside, Logan stayed still. He spent his days refreshing feeds, eyes glazed, scrolling past things he wouldn't remember ten seconds later. Every now and then, he applied for basic positions, nothing serious. Minimum wage. Entry level.
One evening, he opened his banking app and stared at the number on the screen: $1,643.27. Not bad, he thought, and closed it. Another month slipped by. Groceries, subscriptions, bills. The number kept shrinking. Then, without warning, his computer that sat next to his organized desk, sparked. A pop, a hiss, and the screen went black. Logan stared at it for a long moment, not even blinking. The repair cost him seven hundred dollars. He paid it without hesitation. Without his computer, it felt like his heart stopped beating. Another week. Rent. More bills. The number fell again. He checked it one morning and saw $3.21. Just one sandwich away from zero. No panic. No real emotion. Just a quiet exhale and a distant, fading sense of finality. Then his phone rang. Unknown number. He stared at it. Then he answered.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice, polite. Bright, but not overly so. "Hi. Is this Logan?"
He hesitated. "Yeah."
"This is Lillian from Cordis & Reed. You applied a while ago for the office assistant position?"
He blinked slowly. He barely remembered it. That was at least two months ago. Maybe more.
"We had a cancellation for tomorrow morning," she continued. "I know it's short notice, but you were one of our top flagged candidates."
Logan said nothing. He glanced at the empty room around him like it might have changed.
"We're located downtown. Ten a.m. Do you know the address?" He didn't remember being a "top" anything. Logan's voice jumped, almost too quick. "Yes, I do!" It came out louder than expected, almost hopeful. For a second, it felt like divine intervention. Suspiciously perfect timing. Still, he cleared his throat. "Yeah. I'm available."
"Great. We'll see you tomorrow, Logan."
The line clicked. Silence again.
Logan looked down at the phone in his hand, then at the balance still glowing on his banking app. \$3.21. He set the phone down. Then he sat in the dark for a long, long time. \$3.21. Enough for bus fare. Maybe a coffee. He didn't move for an hour. But when he finally did, it felt different. Not fast. Not energetic. But intentional. He showered. Shaved. Dug through a bin of old clothes and found the least-wrinkled semi-formal attire he could wear. There were wrinkles everywhere. He tried to smooth them out before leaving the house. He printed his resume, even though they already had it. Before bed, he sent a quick text to his mom: "Wish me luck." She didn't answer. Not yet. That night, he lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The room didn't feel as heavy. His heart didn't pound, but it beat steady, like it was listening. Somewhere in the stillness, he found a thought he hadn't heard in a long time. Maybe this time will be different.
Morning came, still damp with the smell of lingering dew. The sky was flat gray, the sidewalks damp. Logan dressed in silence, checked the mirror once, then left. No headphones. No distractions. Just the quiet hum of the city waking up around him. He took the bus downtown, the engine humming like a slow heartbeat. Outside the window, the city blurred past, traffic lights blinking, pedestrians bundled against the cold, steam rising from sidewalk grates. He counted each stop. Watched people get on, get off. Watched life. Just for a second, he imagined being one of them. Laughing with coworkers. Complaining about deadlines. Holding a worn-out grocery bag on the way home, knowing he earned what was inside. It wasn't glamorous, but it felt real. Going to a job. Meeting someone after work. Buying groceries. Coming home tired and proud of it. The bus jolted. He got off. Crossed the street. He wasn't running late. He wasn't rushing. He was thinking about how he'd answer the "tell me about yourself" question. Something honest, but not too honest. Something like—His foot caught the curb.
A twist. A slip. A weightless second.
Then his head hit concrete. Everything blinked.
No sound. No air. No pain.
Just black.