Chapter 1: The Weight Of Existence
"You were never enough, never worth staying for."
"They all left because you weren't even worth a second glance."
"You never even mattered. You were nothing!"
"Such a disappointment!"
"All you ever do is drag everyone down."
"Why were you even born?!"
"Leaving you is so easy. Such a dull, lifeless person, who would even stay?"
"Just die already!"
The voices claw at his mind, relentless, their echoes tightening around his chest. His breath stutters, sharp and uneven, as though he has just run until his lungs give out, except he hasn't even moved, not a bit. He forces his eyes open, unnoticed a tear escapes from his eye.
His body trembles as he slowly pushes himself upright, his back pressing against the headboard. He takes a deep breath, then another, but the air feels thin. The silence of the room is suffocating, but at least it is not as cruel as his thoughts.
His eyes roam the dimly lit space. It is small, just barely 20 square meters, which is enough for the essentials: a bed, a bedside table, a tiny kitchen with an electric stove and a sink, and a narrow closet that holds the few belongings he owns. It had never felt cramped before, but right now, the walls seem to close in, pressing against him as if trying to crush his worthless and meaningless life..
His gaze drifts to the clock hanging directly in front of him—4:01 AM.
Too early for morning. Too late to sleep.
He shifts his eyes to the window. The sky remains dark, stretching endlessly above. The sun has yet to rise. But he is now wide awake. Completely awake.
Reaching for his phone on the bedside table, he blinks, his vision blurred by unshed tears. He squints at the screen, trying to focus his eyes. Then a reminder pops up once his vision stabilizes. Realization hits him.
February 7 (TODAY)
Job interview at LightRay Tech Company at 8 AM.
Ah, he had almost forgotten today's agenda.
A tired groan escapes from his lips. He wants to return to sleep, his body is still heavy, his eyelids show clear signs of closing, yet his mind is wide awake, refusing to let him go back to sleep. His consciousness is a cruel force, keeping him tethered to the same thoughts he wishes he could escape. He rubs his eyes, feeling the dampness against his fingertips. His breathing is shallow, as if exhaustion has wrapped itself around his ribs.
What was the point? Another interview, another attempt at proving his worth to people who wouldn't care about the weight he carried. Another opportunity to be rejected, to be reminded that he was never enough. The cycle was endless.
He throws the blanket off his legs and swings them over the edge of the bed. The cold floor bites at his skin. His fingers run through his disheveled hair as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. A long, tired sigh escapes him.
Outside, the city is still asleep, but soon, life will begin. People will wake up, start their routines, chase dreams, or maybe just survive another day. He wonders which category he falls into. Maybe neither. Maybe he's just drifting, waiting for time to run out. He isn't chasing any dreams nor trying to survive, he was burned out to the core, that he can only hope his time is slowly running out. But deep inside he knows it's not the time yet.
His phone screen dims before shutting off. He stares at the black screen of his own reflection, barely recognizing the person looking back. Hollow eyes, dark circles beneath them, lips pressed into a thin line. He looks exactly how he feels, he looks drained, empty, and lost.
A part of him wants to skip the interview. He could just send an email, make up an excuse. But then what? Stay in bed all day, trapped in the same thoughts that gnaw at him like hungry vultures? The idea is tempting, but the weight of knowing he should at least try presses against him.
With a slow inhale, he pushes himself off the bed. His legs feel weak, as if they aren't his own. He drags himself to the small kitchen, filling a glass with water. The first sip is cold against his throat, but it does little to wash away the bitterness inside him and somehow wake up his sleepy mind.
The room is eerily quiet. No trace of insects sound, no voices, nothing but the sound of his own breathing. He wonders what it would be like to live in a space filled with warmth and laughter. The presence of someone who actually cared. But those are luxuries for people who don't have to carry a burden and ghost of the past.
He sometimes thinks of these thoughts, but what's the point of thinking of these too much when he doesn't deserve to have someone by their side. Someone like him, disposable and burdensome, has no claim to such human luxuries.
His fingers tighten around the glass. He exhales, setting it down on the counter before forcing himself toward the bathroom. The dim light flickers as he turns it on. He stares into the mirror, gripping the sink for support. The person staring back at him is a stranger. Dull lifeless eyes, expressionless face, skin paler than it should be. He even thought that It's also hard to look and stay with a person whose appearance is so hideous.
He turns on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. It doesn't clear his mind. It doesn't do anything. He watches the water drip from his chin, pooling in the sink before swirling down the drain. For a second, he imagines himself being washed away just as easily.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he turns off the faucet and grips the counter tighter. His knuckles turn white. The voices haven't faded; they never do. These voices are the ghosts of his past. But he knows how to live with them now, how to carry them like an unbearable weight without letting them completely crush him.
At least, not yet.
After taking a shower, with the towel wrapping his bottom half, he moves toward his closet, pulling out the only decent suit he owns. The fabric feels stiff, unfamiliar, as he slips it over his body. It smells faintly of detergent, a reminder that he rarely wears it. He glanced at the time, it was already 4:30 AM.
Three and a half hours until the interview. Three and a half hours to convince himself he's good enough. Three and a half hours to hope that, maybe, today will be different. But deep down, he wonders, 'what if it isn't?'
As he buttons his shirt, his eyes land on his reflection in the mirror. The dim light casts harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the exhaustion carved into his features. For a moment, he stares at himself. Then, the thoughts creep in again:
"Why even try? You're just going to fail."
"You don't belong anywhere."
"Do you really think they'll hire someone like you? Keep dreaming."
"You're old now. It's too late to change anything."
"Just give up already."
The words swirl in his head, suffocating him like an invisible hand tightening around his throat. He clenches his fists and forces himself to take slow, deep breaths. One at a time. In and out. The voices slowly begin to fade.
He doesn't know if today will be any different. He doesn't know if this job will change anything. But he has to try. At least he has to.
With another deep breath, he straightens his back. The weight of everything still presses down on him, heavy and constant, like a wet blanket draped over his shoulders. Too hard to carry that it would make him stumble. But he moves anyway.
Because that's all he can do, and what he's capable of doing.
He grabs his wallet, apartment keys, and the bag with his documents. Before leaving, he glances at the mirror one last time.
"So dull."
The thought pops into his head before he can stop it. Even in his best clothes, he looks the same tired, empty, like someone who isn't even breathing nor alive. Feeling that the voices threaten to return. He quickly puts on his shoes and steps outside, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, it feels like he left the voices in his head trapped inside in his room. Unable to follow him and spout countless harsh statements.
Outside his apartment building, he pauses. The cool air bites at his skin, he should have dressed heavier to fight the cold.
"Where am I even going?" he wonders. He hadn't planned on waking up so early in the morning. But what he knows is that he just needed to escape that small, suffocating room that is somehow filled with those voices acting like a ghost lingering in him. Now, he stands at the apartment entrance, dressed for an interview, but unsure of what to do next.
He looked up and noticed that the sky was beginning to change. A faint glow stretches across the horizon, bleeding into the darkness. Another day is pending to start, indifferent to whether he wants it to or not.
"Let's just take a walk for now," he mutters to himself,
He glances at his watch. It was now 5:38 AM. Still two hours until his interview. The city is still quiet, caught in the space between night and morning. Wandering is the only way to pass the time.
As he walks, his feet move on their own, taking him through familiar streets. His thoughts remain loud, but the hum of the waking city slowly starts to drown them out. He walks past darkened storefronts, their windows reflecting the first hints of morning light. The occasional street lamp flickers as if struggling to stay awake.
The silence isn't absolute. There are distant sounds of life, the soft hum of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, a muffled voice from an open window. It feels both empty and full, a paradox he has lived in for years.
His footsteps slow as he passes a shop that seems unfamiliar. It wasn't here before, or maybe he just never noticed it. The workers inside move with quiet urgency, unpacking boxes and arranging items on shelves. A fragrance drifts into the air, soft and floral, a stark contrast to the city's usual mix of exhaust and concrete. He blinks, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar scent.
His eyes land on the sign above the entrance.
'Alora Flower Shop.'
So that's why the scent is familiar. It's a flower shop. He stares at it for a moment longer, watching as the workers carefully arrange bouquets in the window. The petals look delicate, vibrant against the backdrop of the still-dim city. He can't help but wonder if the flowers know their own beauty or if they, too, feel like they are just existing, waiting to wither away.
He shakes his head and continues walking. There's no reason to linger.
Reaching the bus station just across the street, he finally decides on a destination. He'll head to the park near the company where his interview is scheduled. It's a better way to pass the time than wandering aimlessly or killing time at a random place that is too far from where he needs to be.
—--------
Time had slipped away faster than he realized, and now he found himself standing outside the towering structure of LightRay Tech Company. The building loomed above him, its sleek glass windows reflecting the golden hues of the fresh morning light. Its cutting-edge architecture radiated a sense of prestige, the kind that made it clear that this was no ordinary company. Just looking at it, one could tell that this place was a hub of innovation, a place for those who belonged at the top.
He swallowed hard, feeling the familiar weight of unease settle in his chest. His hands instinctively smoothed over his suit, one of the few presentable things he owned, and he forced his feet to move forward. Each step felt heavier than the last as he approached the grand entrance.
Stepping inside, he was momentarily awestruck by the building's interior. The lobby exudes sophistication, a seamless blend of modern design and functionality. Employees moved with purpose, dressed in sleek, tailored uniforms that perfectly matched the company's polished image. They carried themselves with a confidence he had never known.
His gaze swept the room before landing on the information desk positioned to the left of the entrance. He made his way there, expecting to be acknowledged, yet… nothing.
The two employees behind the desk were too engrossed in their conversation to notice him. They laughed, exchanged remarks, as if he were invisible.
"Hi, where—"
Before he could even finish his sentence, someone abruptly stepped in front of him, cutting him off mid-syllable. He opened his mouth to protest, but his voice came out feeble, barely more than a whisper.
"Uhmm… excuse me…" he tried again, yet even in the quiet lobby, his words seemed to dissolve into nothingness. The chatter of the employees persisted, the sound filling the space between him and them, widening the gap that already felt insurmountable.
'PFFTTT—your presence is so insignificant that they don't even hear you.'
'Hahaha, how pathetic.'
His throat tightened as the familiar voices resurfaced, their cruel laughter echoing in his mind. He had thought he left them behind in his apartment, but they clung to him, relentlessly, refusing to let him exist without ridicule.
"Excuse me?" This time, his voice was louder, yet hesitation still clung to it.
At last, one of the receptionists turned toward him. "Good day, sir! How can we assist you?"
Her polite smile faltered, just for a second. It was barely perceptible, but he caught it. There was a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she looked at him. A man nearing forty, dressed respectably yet still appearing worn and unkempt. His posture slumped, his complexion pallid, his eyes sunken beneath dark circles that rivaled a panda's. His long, unkempt hair nearly veiled his face, a stark contrast to the fresh, composed professionals bustling around him.
For a brief moment, the unspoken question hung in the air
'How did someone like him even make it to this stage?'
Unlike the warm, effortless smile she had given the younger man before him, the one she now offered was strained, forced.
"I'm here for… a job interview…" he mumbled, his voice faltering under the weight of embarrassment. Seeing her reaction only made him more aware of himself, of the absurdity of even being here. Maybe I should just walk out, he thought.
The receptionist blinked before quickly regaining her composure. "Oh… then please proceed that way. There are signs directing you to the interview center," she said, her tone polite but dismissive.
Before he could even utter a thank you, she had already turned back to her coworker, resuming their conversation as if he had never been there.
He exhaled quietly, forcing himself to move. There was no other choice. He followed her instructions, his feet carrying him toward the hallway that led to the elevators. The interview center was located on the third floor.
But before he could fully walk away, their voices reached his ears, low, amused, yet sharp enough to cut through him like a blade.
"That scared me! I thought he was a ghost or something," the woman who had just spoken to him said, her tone light, almost playful.
"You wanna bet to see if he'd even get hired? I'm betting he wouldn't even pass," she added, followed by a soft, mocking laugh.
"Such a shabby-looking guy doesn't belong in our company," another voice chimed in, their laughter blending together in a cruel harmony.
He heard them. Every word. But he didn't flinch. He didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head.
The words meant nothing.
He was tired, too tired to care, too drained to react. What was the point? Let them laugh. Let them mock. He had no energy left to feel embarrassed or humiliated. He just wanted this over with.
The voices in his head stirred, ready to sink their claws into him.
"Look at you, pathetic and invisible"
"You don't belong here."
He ignored them.
One foot in front of the other. That was all that mattered. Get to the interview. Answer their questions. Get rejected. Go home and take a short rest before going to his part time job. That was the pattern, wasn't it?
Their laughter faded behind him, but it didn't matter. Nothing did. Not the stares, not the whispers, not the weight pressing down on his shoulders.
He just needed to finish this quickly and maybe this would end in a better way than he expected..
_____________________
Kerchak
The sound of the door opening was followed by a thud
The bag slipped from his shoulder and landed heavily on the floor. Wynn didn't even bother picking it up.
Tired, he dragged himself toward the bed. The path wasn't long, but every stride weighed him down, as though he were pulling along a lifeless body that refused to move. His shoulders sagged, his feet shuffled. Even breathing felt like an effort.
As soon as he reached the bed, he collapsed face-up onto the mattress. He was so drained he could have fallen asleep right there at the doorway, but the sight of the bed had pushed him forward. His legs trembled, close to giving out, but he made it.
The moment the hard mattress touched his back, he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His eyes slid shut, desperate for even a fragment of rest. Just a moment, he thought. Just a moment to breathe after today.
But the silence in the room betrayed him. In the darkness behind his eyelids, memories from the interview rushed in, uninvited.
The stares.
The disappointment written plainly on their faces.
The way they exchanged glances, eyes sharp with judgment, as though silently asking how someone like him had ended up sitting across from them at all.
That wasn't even the worst of it. The job had been a rare chance. One he had clawed toward with the help of a past client's glowing recommendation. Yet it had already slipped through his fingers the moment he stepped inside.
He tripped.
For the love of God, he tripped on the door frame as soon as he entered. A clumsy misstep, a loud thud as his knees struck the floor. The sound echoed through the room, heavy, humiliating.
Pain flared in his legs, but shame burned hotter. He forced himself upright, pretending nothing had happened, though his face was flushed and his palms damp. Inside, his thoughts fractured into chaos. Voices clawed at his mind, jeering, relentless:
"HAHAHAHA! WHAT A FOOL!"
"WHO TRIPS ON A DOOR FRAME? ONLY SOMEONE LIKE YOU!"
"LOOK AT THEIR FACES. THEY'RE LAUGHING INSIDE. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED!"
When the voices pushed him to look up, he did so hesitantly. His chin stayed slightly lowered, but his eyes flicked toward them. He wished he hadn't.
Their faces said it all. Some stared blankly, as if speechless at the absurdity of it. Others frowned in faint disbelief, like they weren't sure if he was even supposed to be there. But then they glanced at the résumé in front of them, saw his picture, and their doubts settled into certainty. He was one of the candidates. Unfortunately.
"Mr. Wynn Harvey, right?" the man in the middle asked, adjusting his glasses. His tone was even, but Wynn swore he caught a flicker of disdain.
Wynn brushed at his knees, his palms stinging, as though wiping away dust could erase the humiliation. He gave a small nod, his voice low and uncertain
"Yes, that's me."
"Alright. Please, take a seat," another man said, pointing to the chair directly in front of them.
Wynn walked stiffly toward it, his legs still aching. He sat down, his body rigid, trying to appear composed. But the voices in his head hadn't gone silent. They lingered, mocking, almost drowning out the words spoken in the room.
The questions came, one after another. His mind, however, drifted. Sometimes he blanked out completely, spacing into silence until the panel repeated themselves. His answers were stilted, shallow. It was nothing like the ones he had rehearsed.
Deep down, he knew it. The moment he tripped at the door, the interview had been over. Everything afterward was just a slow show to entertain the interviewers.
When it finally ended, he muttered a faint farewell and bolted for the door. He didn't dare look back. He couldn't stand to see their faces again, not after fumbling so badly. His chest ached, his throat tight. Shame clung to him like a second skin.
He was devastated, but then again. What had he expected? That life would suddenly go his way? That he wouldn't find a way to ruin it?
Yeah, right.
The memory stung so sharply that even lying on his bed now, it was almost unbearable. With a groan, Wynn sat up, running his hands roughly through his hair until it stuck out in wild tufts. He let out a heavy sigh, pulled his phone from his pocket, and glanced at the screen.
3:38 p.m.
Only then did he realize how much of the day had slipped away. He had spent it all at the interview, waiting in that suffocating corridor while one candidate after another went in. The line had been endless. He hadn't eaten, hadn't drunk anything. He just sat there, watching faces as they emerged.
Some looked regretful. Some, hollow. Others carried a quiet confidence, even satisfaction.
And him? He had walked out with shame etched across his face. Not regret. Not sadness. Just pure shame.
He couldn't cry, not even if he wanted to. Shame made it impossible. He had no right, he told himself. A position at such a renowned company wasn't meant for someone at his level. He suppressed the urge, fearing that if his eyes even reddened, the voices in his head would roar louder, mocking him endlessly.
He shook his head hard, forcing the memory down. Enough.
Rising from the bed, he dragged himself toward the cabinet. He still had a part-time job to get to, and his shift started at 5 p.m. sharp. Thankfully, the place was only a fifteen-minute walk from home.
He quickly changed out of his crumpled suit into casual clothes. Wynn was currently working as a part-time tutor for college students in computer engineering. Which is his forte, something he actually excelled at. Computers made sense to him. People didn't.
With an appointment scheduled at five, he gathered the necessary materials and packed them neatly into his black backpack. Once everything was ready, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand, slipped on his loafers, and headed out the door.
The route was the same one he had taken earlier that morning, but now the street was alive. Shops buzzed with customers, vendors called out their sales, and groups of people walked briskly by. He hadn't noticed any of it when he returned home earlier, too consumed by exhaustion to care. His apartment was supposed to be his refuge, his safe place. But was it really safe when the voices followed him inside?
Still, it was all he had in order to keep himself warm.
As he walked, a soft floral scent brushed against his nose, tugging his attention.
Right….the new flower shop. It had opened only recently, tucked among the other storefronts.
He scanned the street until his eyes caught on it, just ten steps away. The shop was crowded, people entering and leaving with smiles stretching to their ears, clutching vibrant bouquets.
Wynn stopped in front of it. His eyes fell on the flowers displayed inside. Three are daisies, lilies, roses, tulips. Each alive with color, vivid and delicate. For some reason, his gaze lingered. Something about them pulled at him, urging him to step closer, to reach out.
But fear stopped him.
The place was too lively, too full of warmth and joy. He felt like an intruder, convinced that if he so much as touched one of those blossoms, it would wilt instantly in his presence. The thought was unbearable.
He was still caught in his silent debate when a voice, soft, yet carrying a quiet strength spoke from behind him.
"Do you plan to buy flowers?"
Startled, Wynn flinched and turned. A man stood there, holding a bundle of fresh flowers, a gentle smile resting easily on his face. His smile elevated his handsome face.
"I—" Wynn began, but before he could finish, a voice called out from the shop.
"Nate! Quickly, come and help with the arrangements!" a girl shouted from the doorway, her voice clear above the bustle.
Both of them turned toward the girl. Wynn guessed that the "Nate" she was calling was the guy standing behind him. It wasn't hard to tell since he wore the same uniform as the girl by the shop's entrance, and the flowers in his arms said the rest.
As she called, Nate gave a short reply: "Alright!" His voice carried easily, warm even in its brevity. Then he turned back to Wynn, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something more. Yet his smile seems to never leave his face.
But Wynn quickly shook his head, cutting him off. In a low voice but loud enough to be heard, yet firm
He said, "No, I'm not." Then he turned away, resuming his walk.
"Oh… okay," Nate murmured softly behind him.
The scent of flowers lingered faintly in the air, then faded with each step Wynn took.
He continued down the street toward his student's house. The boy was a freshman, struggling with lessons but earnest and motivated, often teasing Wynn about his "gloomy aura." Wynn never minded. The pay was good, and that was enough. Words could pass through his ears without settling in his mind.
After a few more minutes of walking, Wynn finally arrived at his destination. Standing before the door, he let out a long sigh. He straightened his posture, braced himself, and knocked gently.
The tutoring session was about to begin.
He only hoped this part of his day would somehow end on a better note than the last one, hoping to replace what had happened earlier.