The room was silent. Not peaceful. Just empty, like something had drained it long ago.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor that was littered with old notes and broken pens. A dim streetlight blinked through the half-closed curtains, cutting faint lines across his face.
"Why is this happening to me?" His voice was hoarse, like he hadn't used it in days. "Everything was fine. Could've been better. I could've been better."
He let the words hang. They sounded fake, even to him.
Maybe he hadn't ruined things. Maybe things were always ruined, and he had just been too blind to see it. People called it bad luck. He called it truth.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back against the cold wall. "I've messed up everything… or maybe I've seen too much."
The ceiling above him was cracked. He followed the lines like a maze with no exit. He wondered if that's what his life looked like from above — messy, unfinished, pointless.
He used to laugh at people who complained about life, who said they couldn't take it anymore. Weak, he'd called them. Pathetic. But now, he understood. Not in theory — in pain.
He had read about the world's darkness before. Articles, books, random posts online. All talking about how cruel people could be, how life could swallow you whole if you let it. Back then, it was all entertainment. A nice distraction before sleep.
Now it wasn't entertainment. It was his reflection.
The silence grew thicker. The air felt heavy, like the room itself was listening. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Then quiet again.
He stared at the mirror across the room. His reflection sat there, motionless, tired. The eyes looked empty — not in a poetic way, just hollow. Like someone had taken the person inside and left the shell behind.
He smirked faintly. "So this is what it feels like," he said. "Losing slowly."
The clock ticked once. Then again.
Each second felt like a reminder that time didn't stop for anyone — not even for people who'd already stopped living.
He thought about getting up. Maybe turning on the light, maybe doing something. But he didn't. Moving felt useless. The darkness was easier to deal with. It didn't ask for effort.
The streetlight flickered again, casting his shadow across the wall. It looked taller than him, stronger — almost alive.
He stared at it for a while. Then whispered, "You seem fine."
The light blinked one last time before going out completely, leaving him and his shadow to figure out who would fade first.
The room stayed dark. The streetlight outside was dead now, leaving nothing but the faint hum of electricity in the walls. He didn't move. He didn't have to.
His thoughts filled the space anyway.
"People say if you're sad, just talk to someone. Find company. You'll feel better." He scoffed under his breath. "Like painkillers."
He looked toward the window. The city outside was quiet, lifeless. "But do painkillers ever cure anything? No. They just make you forget for a while. They numb you enough to keep walking."
He picked up an empty water bottle from the floor and crushed it slowly, the plastic squealing in his grip. "That's all people do. They hide the pain, shove it somewhere deep, pretend it's gone. Bullshit."
The bottle fell from his hand and rolled away.
"Dependency," he muttered. "That's all it is. We depend on people the same way addicts depend on pills. Just for that brief sense of peace before the crash."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again. His voice dropped. "And how many people actually give a damn? Not many. You mess up once, and it's over. Their affection disappears faster than a lie."
He gave a bitter laugh. "You make one mistake, and suddenly you're not worth the time. All that care, all that warmth—gone. Like it never existed. What's the point of depending on something that fragile?"
The question lingered in the air like smoke.
He stared at the wall across from him. The shadows made strange shapes—some looked like faces. He blinked, but they didn't go away.
"People talk about love," he continued, "but it's just another drug. Short-term comfort, long-term damage." He paused. "I'm not denying real love existed once. There were people who could actually show it—Jesus, Buddha, whoever. But they were rare. Almost nonexistent."
He tilted his head slightly. "And even when they did exist, look what happened to them. One was crucified. The other poisoned slowly by his own followers."
He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. "So yeah, that's how the world treats the pure ones. And we think we're any different now?"
A faint gust of wind pushed through the half-open window. The curtain swayed, brushing against the wall like it was whispering something he couldn't hear.
He ignored it.
"These people," he said quietly, "they wear their masks so well. Pretend to care. Pretend to feel. Hypocrisy is their perfume."
He looked down at his hands, turning them slowly. "I didn't realize it before. I thought everyone had some good in them. I was wrong."
He stood up and walked to the window. The glass was cold against his fingertips. He could see faint outlines of distant buildings, but no stars. Just black sky pressing down on everything.
"In tense moments," he said, "that's when they show who they really are. When things go wrong, the masks fall off. And what do you see then?"
He pressed his forehead against the glass. His breath fogged it up. "You see animals. Wolves in sheep's clothing. Preaching peace while tearing flesh."
His reflection looked back at him through the window—pale, hollow-eyed, tired. "Humans love to think they're different from animals," he whispered. "That they're evolved. Civilized. But strip away their rules, their polite words, and you'll see it. Teeth. Claws. Hunger."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence return. His thoughts came slower now, heavier.
"They pretend to care for each other," he said. "But the truth is simpler. People care as long as they get something out of it. Validation. Security. Power. Love's just another trade."
He turned away from the window and sat down again. The bed creaked. "I've seen people pray for peace and then enjoy watching others fall. I've seen them talk about kindness while stabbing someone with their words."
He rubbed his temples. "And I used to believe them. I really did. I thought maybe this world had some light left in it. But it's all performance. Every emotion rehearsed. Every tear calculated."
The words came quieter now. "When you start seeing through it, you stop fitting in. You stop smiling at their fake comfort. You stop pretending to heal from wounds they caused."
He looked at the mirror again. His reflection hadn't changed. Maybe it never would.
"They call people like me cynical," he said. "But cynicism is just clarity with bad timing."
He stood up again, pacing slowly, each step soft on the old wooden floor. The room felt smaller now. The walls were closing in, or maybe his thoughts were just too big for the space.
He stopped near the door, hand hovering over the knob, then dropped it. "What's the point of stepping out? More masks? More lies?"
The quiet returned. He sat down again, exhaling slowly.
"You know," he murmured, "maybe the reason I hate people is because I used to be one of them."
He looked up at the ceiling, that same cracked, peeling surface. "Maybe this is what waking up feels like. Losing illusions, one by one, until nothing's left but the truth. And the truth doesn't care if you're ready."
A small smile touched his face. "So yeah… maybe I'm not broken. Maybe I'm just awake."
The room said nothing back. The shadows stayed where they were.
Outside, a faint drizzle began to tap against the glass, soft and steady. The air smelled like dust and rain.
He closed his eyes, letting the sound fill the void. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful. But peace, like everything else, was temporary.
The rain outside whispered against the window.
He opened his eyes. "I know what needs to be done," he said. "I've had enough of being a puppet."
He stood, grabbed the door handle, and paused. "It's time to wake up."
The door creaked open. Faint light cut through the dark.He stepped out.
The room stayed dead behind him.