Change.
The act or instance of becoming different.
A word so small, yet so cruel.
The world changed when my parents passed away.
I was sixteen.
I remember that day too clearly, like a scar carved into the back of my eyes.
The sky was gray and heavy, the kind of gray that makes everything look dead. The rain was soft but constant, soaking into my socks as I walked across the apartment to answer the phone.
I thought it would be Dad.
Maybe Mom.
I thought I'd hear one of them say, "What would you like to eat? We'll be home soon."
But it wasn't either of them.
The voice on the other end was calm, indifferent, like they were reading off a script.
"Are you the son of-"
My chest went cold.
The words that followed took the air out of my lungs.
Car accident.
Dead on impact.
I didn't even realize I'd dropped the phone until I heard it clatter against the floor.
The silence after the call was deafening.
My sister looked up from where she was sitting, her hands still clutching the half-built doll house on the carpet.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.
I wanted to tell her.
I wanted to explain why my hands were shaking and why I couldn't breathe.
But the words wouldn't come out.
So I lied.
"It's nothing."
That night, I tucked her into bed, turned off the light, and sat at the kitchen table alone.
Two empty chairs.
Two untouched plates.
Two ghosts who were supposed to be sitting there.
The refrigerator hummed in the silence as if it was mocking me.
I didn't sleep.
I just sat there, staring at their chairs, waiting for the sound of their car outside.
It never came.
That was the night I stopped being a kid.
Because somebody had to take care of my sister now and there was no one left but me.
I thought that meant just feeding her, keeping her safe, making sure she brushed her teeth before bed.
But it was more than that.
It was learning to smile even when I wanted to scream.
It was staying up late with a flashlight, trying to figure out how to pay rent with a half-dead laptop.
It was listening to her cry at night because she missed Mom and Dad, and forcing myself not to cry too, because if she saw me break, she'd break with me.
I became everything at once:
Brother.
Parent.
Friend.
Provider.
And even though it was killing me, I told myself I was doing okay.
Some mornings, when I managed to make her laugh at breakfast, I believed it.
When she brought home a good grade and showed it to me with that big proud grin, I trusted it.
For a while, I thought maybe this was what life was now, hard, but survivable.
But I wasn't sleeping.
I couldn't bring myself to eat.
I'd come home from school so tired I'd just sit on the couch and stare at nothing until she asked if we were having dinner.
I wanted to be strong for her.
I wanted to keep the world from taking anything else from us.
But the world didn't care what I wanted.
The first time she got sick, I told her everything was fine.
It was just a fever.
Just a cold.
Kids get sick all the time, right?
I stayed up that night cooling her forehead, telling her that she'd be okay.
I held her hand and promised she wouldn't have to go through anything alone.
But the fever didn't go down.
And I didn't sleep.
Days blurred together.
The apartment smelled of sweat and pills.
I could barely keep my eyes open, but I kept sitting there, watching as her chest rose and fell.
Because if I stopped watching, if I looked away even for a second, what if she…
I didn't even finish that thought.
But I didn't need to.
Because one morning, I woke up with my head on the edge of her bed and she wasn't breathing.
The world changed again when my sister died.
Three months later, I climbed to the roof of our apartment building.
It wasn't impulsive.
I had been thinking about it for weeks.
Every night after school, after work, after the endless cycle of pretending I was okay… I'd lie awake staring at the ceiling until the ceiling started staring back.
My chest always felt heavy in those moments, like something was sitting on me, pinning me down.
Some nights I thought I could hear my parents' voices.
Other nights, my sister's.
But every time I turned on the lights, there was nothing.
Just me.
Just the silence.
I told myself I'd hold on until I couldn't anymore.
That night, I decided I couldn't.
The stairwell was empty when I made my way up.
Each step echoed, hollow and final, like nails in a coffin lid.
When I pushed open the door to the roof, the cold brushed past face.
It was winter, and the air was sharp enough to sting my lungs.
I walked to the edge and looked down.
From up there, the streets looked so small.
Cars looked like insects, people just specks of dust drifting through the night.
And I thought, that's all I am as well.
Just one more speck.
One no one would notice missing.
I thought about my parents.
The way my mom used to hum while cooking dinner, the way my dad's laugh used to bring light to my tiny world.
I thought about my sister's face the day of their funeral, how she clung to me so hard that it hurt.
I thought about how quiet the apartment had become after she died.
Like someone had ripped the sound out of the world and left me to rot in the silence.
Tomorrow, it would be even quieter.
Tomorrow.. no one would be left to miss them.
I climbed onto the ledge.
The city spread out below me like an endless sea of light and cruelty.
All those lives, all those lights and not one of them would stop spinning if I disappeared.
And for the first time in months, I smiled.
Because it was almost over.
I closed my eyes.
And then I stepped off.
For a single second, I felt like I had been unbounded by every thought and responsibility that held me.
I was free.
The air rushed past me, gliding against my skin.
The ground rushed toward me.
And for that one instant, I wasn't drowning anymore.
Then the world slammed into me.
Pain exploded everywhere at once, searing, crushing, blinding.
Every bone in my body screamed, then went silent.
And then nothing.
I woke up in a hospital bed.
At first, I thought I was dead.
The lights were too bright, too clean, too white.
Then the beeping started.
The air smelled of medicine.
And I realized I wasn't dead at all.
I was still here.
I tried to move.
My legs didn't respond.
My arms didn't budge.
Not even my fingers twitched.
Panic set in.
I tried to scream, but my throat wouldn't work.
The heart monitor spiked as my breath came faster and faster, until someone rushed in, a nurse, shouting something I couldn't understand.
Later, the doctor came.
He told me I was "lucky."
Lucky.
My spine was shattered. I'd never walk again.
Never run.
Never even sit up on my own.
I stared at him until he left, and then I stared at the ceiling for hours.
When the tears finally came, they slid down the sides of my face and soaked the pillow.
I couldn't even wipe them away.
Days turned to weeks.
I couldn't feed myself.
Couldn't scratch when my skin itched.
I had to wait for nurses to come turn me like a piece of meat so I wouldn't get bedsores.
Sometimes they forgot, and I would lie there staring at the wall for hours, back burning, unable to sleep, unable to move.
Sometimes I wished they wouldn't come back at all.
When they did, they talked about me like I wasn't there.
"Poor kid."
"Such a waste."
"Why would someone so young try something like that?"
I wanted to scream at them.
To tell them I didn't want to be here either.
But all I could do was stare at the ceiling and let their words seep into my mind.
I wasn't a person anymore.
I was just something the hospital kept alive out of obligation.
Some nights I wished I had hit my head harder.
And every evening, that stupid anime played on the TV in the corner of the room.
It wasn't my choice, the nurses said they left it on so I wouldn't feel "lonely."
Like a glowing box full of perfect people could replace the sound of my sister's voice.
But the longer I stayed here, the more those bright colors bled into my head, and the more I started to memorize every frame.
Amaris.
The chosen one.
The golden boy.
The hero who always stood tall, who could always come out the victor no matter what, who always saved everyone.
I hated him.
I hated how his cape fluttered when he ran.
I hated how his hair always looked perfect even after a fight.
I hated the way he smiled at people like he was some shining beacon of hope.
I hated that he never failed.
That no matter how bad things got, no matter how hard the world tried to break him, he always stood back up.
I couldn't stand up.
I couldn't even sit up.
I lay there, strapped to a bed by my own useless body, while that smug bastard danced across the screen with a sword in his hand and that light in his eyes.
And yet… I couldn't look away.
Because for those twenty minutes every night, I could pretend it was me.
I could imagine my body moving with every slash, every leap, every dodge.
Imagine my legs running, my arms swinging, my voice shouting.
Sometimes I'd close my eyes and time my breathing with his.
Pretend that if I could just match him perfectly, somehow my body would remember how to move.
But when the episode ended and the credits rolled, I was still here.
Still broken.
Still staring at the ceiling, waiting for someone to come and turn me over.
The hate festered in me like an infection.
I hated Amaris.
I hated that I wanted to be like Amaris.
I hated the nurses for talking about me like I wasn't even there.
I hated the bed for holding me hostage.
I hated the ceiling for stopping me from seeing the limitless night sky.
I hated myself for not being brave enough to finish the job.
The worst nights were the quiet ones.
When visiting hours ended and the hallway lights clicked off, the silence pressed down on me like a weight.
There was no one left to pretend for, no one to convince that I was "getting better."
It was just me.
Just me and the machine that kept beeping to remind me I was still alive.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to thrash and tear the tubes out of my arms and rip the sheets that covered me.
But I couldn't even move my fingers.
All I could do was lie there.
Lie there and rot.
Tonight was worse.
The smell of medicine felt like it had burned into the inside of my nose.
The room was too quiet, even the beeping felt muffled, like it was underwater.
The TV was still on.
The glow painted the walls a pale blue, almost ghostly, flickering across my motionless body.
Amaris stood there on the battlefield, sword in hand, light blazing around him like the world itself bent to his will.
He looked invincible.
Even though I hated him, I hated myself more.
I wanted to break the screen.
I wanted to crush him, to make him realize he didn't deserve the light he had.
But at the same time, I wanted to be him.
I wanted to stand like he stood, to breathe like he breathed, to fight like he fought.
I wanted to move.
The pressure in my chest grew tighter, heavier.
Each breath dragged like I was trying to inhale with a wet cloth over my face.
My heart pounded, not fast but hard, slow and deliberate, like it was counting down.
I stared at the TV until my vision blurred and the bright light of Amaris became a smear of color.
And I thought, maybe this was it.
Maybe I won't wake up tomorrow.
Maybe I wouldn't have to.
I didn't fight it this time.
I let the heaviness settle over me, let it push me down into the mattress like I was sinking into water.
For once, I felt calm.
Almost… relieved.
Then I heard it.
A sound that wasn't the TV, wasn't the beeping, wasn't anything human.
A whisper, right by my ear, so close I could feel the air move.
"Do you want to abandon what you are?"
The words didn't sound like words, they felt like they were inside of me, like it came from my very being.
Reverberating in my bones.
Through the confusion I only had a single desire, to live a life worthy of a "Hero"
"Yes…" My voice cracked, desperate and broken, barely more than a rasp.
"…please."
The world dimmed.
The TV faded.
The smell of medicine vanished.
And everything went dark.