Morning comes without warmth.
Adrian wakes to a silence so complete it feels like a pressure system collapsing inside the room. The air is thick, unmoving. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator sounds distant, muffled as if the world is holding its breath around him. He lies still for a long time before he can even turn his head.
The letters sit on the table where he left them the night before. Their edges curl slightly in the humidity, but they remain untouched small, fragile testaments to a man who spent the night unraveling in quiet desperation. He stares at them as if they might speak first.
A part of him hopes he dreamt them. Another part knows he didn't.
Each envelope feels like a confession he can't take back. Apologies he wasn't brave enough to say aloud. Regrets he carved out of himself in ink. If someone were to read them, they'd see the truth he hides behind tired smiles: he's exhausted. Bone-deep exhausted. And so terribly, silently afraid.
He wants to get up, to stand, to push past this moment but the air is heavy, pressing him into the mattress like he's being slowly buried.
Eventually he forces himself to sit, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest. He rubs at his eyes, trying to erase the creeping shame that clings to him like smoke.
And then comes the knock.
It's soft. Short. His landlord's knock. Adrian doesn't move at first. He listens to his heartbeat thudding somewhere far away, like a drum underwater. When he finally opens the door, the landlord avoids his eyes, shuffling the notice between his fingers.
"Sorry, Adrian. I really am."
But sympathy doesn't soften the blow when the paper lands in his hands.
Three days to pay or vacate.
Three days to fix something that took years to break.
Three days to save a life already slipping through his fingers.
The words feel clinical, detached like reading his own obituary in the future tense.
He stands in the doorway long after the landlord leaves, staring at the notice until the letters blur. When he finally closes the door, the click of the latch sounds too final. Too much like a door closing on his last chance.
He drops the notice on the table beside the letters, and for a moment, just looking at the pile makes his stomach twist. Each paper is a failure. A weight. A quiet verdict.
Something in him wants to scream.
Something else wants to sleep forever.
Instead, he reaches for his phone.
His hands tremble as he dials the number. Each ring stretches the space inside his chest until it hurts. The manager picks up with a tone that is polite but distant, already thinking about the next task, the next employee, the next day that doesn't include Adrian.
He tries to explain softly, desperately that he can still work, that he can fix this, that he can be better if given one more chance. But the manager's silence on the other end tells him everything before the words even arrive.
"I'm sorry, Adrian. We've already filled the position. Take care."
Take care.
A gentle phrase. An easy one. And yet it hits him harder than anger or accusations ever could. Kindness always hurts the most when you feel like you don't deserve it.
He lowers the phone slowly, staring at his reflection in the dark screen. His eyes look hollow, unfocused, like they belong to someone who slipped out of himself without saying goodbye.
The rest of the day moves strangely too fast and too slow at the same time. Adrian drifts through the apartment like he's floating underwater. Every sound is muted. Every movement is delayed. He walks from the couch to the bed, from the bed to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall as hours slide by unnoticed.
He tries to eat, but the food tastes like paper.
He tries to think, but his thoughts dissolve before he can finish them.
He tries to breathe deeply, but the air catches halfway down, like there isn't enough space inside him anymore.
Time folds over itself until daylight leaves without him noticing.
When night comes, it brings no comfort. Only a deep, suffocating stillness.
He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as shadows shift with the passing cars outside. Each time he closes his eyes, he feels a sharp pang of guilt like resting is a luxury he hasn't earned. His body is tired, but his mind is wired with fear, shame, and the growing belief that life is quietly erasing him.
The world feels thin tonight. Fragile.
Like he could reach out and tear right through it.
He listens to the silence, to the small creaks of the building settling, to the faint hum of traffic in the distance. All of it feels far away, like a life happening without him.
A thought soft, subtle, barely formed slips through the cracks of his mind:
Maybe the world is already preparing itself to be without you.
The thought doesn't startle him.
It settles beside him.
Comfortably. Familiar.
He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, as if he can hold his fading pieces together just a little longer.
But as he lies there in the dim, breath shallow and eyes unfocused, a quiet truth hums beneath his ribs:
He is no longer sure he belongs in the world he's trying so desperately to keep up with.