The world is disgusting.
I've walked its streets, seen its crowds, felt its stench, and I've hated it every step of the way. Not because of the people themselves, not entirely, but because of what they pretend to be. Smiling faces hiding fear, laughter hiding malice, hands reaching out only to push you down. Everything is shallow, repetitive, meaningless. You learn quickly: the world doesn't care. And if it doesn't care, then why should you?
I've always known I was different. Maybe not outwardly. I blend in, nod, smile at the right times, answer questions I don't want to answer. I've memorized the rhythm of expectations, the script that everyone seems to follow without noticing. But the script… it's not mine. None of it is. Sometimes I feel it tugging at me, invisible threads pulling me forward. Every choice I make, every step I take, it's like someone else pressed the buttons before I even realized the keys existed.
Sixteen years of this. Sixteen years of moving through life in chains I can't see. I don't know if it's fate or punishment or some cruel joke, but I've accepted it. Mostly.
School is the first battlefield. Not the kind you see in movies, no dragons, no magic swords. The real battlefield is mundane and relentless: whispered insults, empty compliments, casual cruelty that cuts deeper than any blade. Teachers look the other way. Friends pretend not to notice. I pretend not to care. The world doesn't need to notice me for me to feel its weight.
I've tried to escape in my mind. Sometimes I think about running, disappearing, leaving everything behind and letting the world collapse without me. Other times I imagine myself standing tall, breaking the invisible chains, taking control, daring the world to stop me. And each time, the same thought comes: I can't. Not really. Not yet. The threads pull tighter when I even imagine stepping off the path they've laid for me.
Sometimes I notice patterns. Small things. The way a conversation will inevitably end a certain way, how people repeat the same mistakes, how even my own instincts lead me exactly where I don't want to go. It's terrifying and fascinating. Because if life is predictable, if events can be anticipated, then maybe… maybe someone, somewhere, is writing it.
I've learned to observe. To track. To test limits. Little things at first. Dropping an object to see if anyone reacts. Saying a word in a conversation and watching the response, noting how fast, how predictable. And it's always the same. Always. There's comfort in that, in knowing the boundaries, even if it's cruel comfort.
Outside, the streets hum with people who think they matter, who think they're in control. But control is an illusion. I've seen it fray at the edges, a crack in the surface that nobody notices but me. The way a decision can ripple into outcomes you didn't expect, how a single choice, mine or someone else's, can change the flow, even if only slightly. Tiny rebellions that go unnoticed, tiny acts of defiance that leave the world unchanged.
It's maddening. And yet, there's a part of me that watches, that waits, that studies. Because maybe, just maybe, if I understand the rules well enough, I can bend them. A single thread at a time. A small crack here, a hesitation there. Maybe enough cracks could become a door.
I walk home along the same route I've walked for years. The same streets, the same shops, the same indifferent people. The same cracked pavement under my shoes. I pass a fruit vendor, and for a moment, the smell of oranges cuts through the monotony. A small, fleeting reminder that the world has colors, smells, textures, not everything is gray. But the feeling fades quickly. Reality rushes back: the noise, the heat, the way people bump past without care.
And then, a subtle shift.
It's nothing at first. Just a feeling. A ripple in the air, like the world hesitated for a heartbeat. The hum of the city seemed to bend slightly, as if someone, or something, had glanced my way, unseen but present. I stop, look around, but there's no one. Only shadows stretching across the pavement, the same ones that have always been there.
I shake my head. Probably fatigue. Probably my imagination. Probably nothing. But the feeling lingers. A pull. A whisper of inevitability I can't explain.
I continue walking, faster this time, but the pull grows stronger. It's not threatening. Not exactly. It's… curious. Patient. Watching. Waiting. I feel like I'm standing on a riverbank, and somewhere upstream, a current is forming, pulling me toward a place I haven't seen but somehow know exists.
And I think, in a voice I don't even recognize as my own, "Someone is coming."
I don't know who. I don't know why. But the sensation is unmistakable. The air tastes different, heavy with intention. Something is about to enter my life, something that will bend the rules I've spent so long observing. Something that will break the chains I've felt pressing against me for sixteen years.
I glance at my reflection in a shop window. A boy. Sixteen. Hair messy, eyes tired but sharp. Hands shoved in pockets. The world reflected back at me, twisted and flawed, like a cracked mirror. And in that reflection… I feel a shadow. Not mine. Something beyond me. Something I can't yet comprehend.
The world is disgusting.
But maybe… maybe it's about to get interesting.
Because I have a feeling that whoever, or whatever, is coming, they are going to change everything.
And somehow, deep down, I know this isn't the first time I've seen them.
The future me.
Not literally. Not yet. But a presence. A force. A memory that hasn't happened. A weight on the edge of my consciousness. He is coming. He will come. And when he does, everything will shift.
I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if anyone ever is.
But I know one thing: my life, my chains, my world, they will never be the same again.