Adrian woke to the sound of his alarm clock, the same metallic ring that had been his morning companion for years. He turned it off with a mechanical swipe, already knowing what the next hour of his life would look like. A quick shower, a tasteless breakfast, and a walk down the same cracked pavement toward the office.
The city outside was alive with movement, but to Adrian it all blurred into shades of grey. Cars rushed past, horns echoed, people hurried with coffee cups in hand — yet it all felt like background noise. He moved among them like a ghost, unseen and unseeing.
At work, his cubicle was neat, orderly, and empty of personality. He did his tasks diligently, filed reports, answered emails, nodded at colleagues during meaningless small talk. No excitement, no spark. Just routine. At five o'clock, he packed his things and left, exactly as he had the day before, and the day before that.
Evenings weren't much different. A frozen dinner heated in the microwave. A television show he didn't really watch. Hours scrolling through his phone, comparing his life to the vibrant, colorful ones on his screen — vacations, laughter, love stories. He told himself it was all fake, filters and exaggerations. Still, he felt the hollow ache inside grow heavier.
Sometimes, late at night, Adrian wondered if this was it. Was life meant to be lived in monotone?
Safe but colorless, stable but empty?
He remembered being a child once, when colors mattered. When the blue of the sky felt endless, when the green of the fields carried freedom, when laughter painted the world in gold. Somewhere along the way, those colors had drained out. In their place was this quiet, grey existence — predictable and safe, but lifeless.
That night, staring out the window at the dim glow of streetlamps, Adrian whispered to himself:
"I don't feel alive anymore."
And though no one heard him, those words lingered. They would be the spark that set everything else in motion.