My name is Thomas.
Today I skipped a class, so I headed home earlier than usual. I walked to my boarding house, just a few minutes away from campus.
The small room, measuring two by three meters, awaited my arrival in silence. Though cramped, it always brought me a sense of comfort, as if this tiny space had been created solely for me.
I opened the door slowly, steadying it to keep it from creaking. The scent of old wood and damp air greeted me like an unchanging habit. I set my bag down beside my desk, which sat right by the entrance.
My room looked neat and clean, not by chance, but because I had made the time to tidy it up this morning. The clothes that usually lay strewn about were now neatly folded and stacked in the wardrobe. The bedsheet looked smooth, without a single wrinkle, while the desk was cleared of all clutter. I had even emptied the trash bin.
With my body feeling light, I lay down on the mattress and stared up at the pale ceiling. I felt nothing but a faint pressure in my chest, like an empty space slowly expanding. Tears flowed freely, without warning, without any reason I could name.
The atmosphere today felt incredibly calm. There were no sounds of children playing, no chatter of mothers from across the street. Only the ticking of the clock creeping toward five, and a faint song from the distance. That stillness seeped into me.
And to be honest, I liked it.
Time passed without meaning. I sat at my desk, reached for paper and a pen, and wrote letters, one by one, to the people who had once mattered. Once they were all written, I just stared blankly at the row of papers before me, my mind drifting to nowhere.
Not long after, I stood up calmly.
I picked up the rope I had bought at the hardware store earlier, then slid the chair beneath the room's ventilation vent. My movements were neither rushed nor hesitant. I did it all like a simple routine, like someone finishing one last task before heading home. I stepped onto the chair and, standing on tiptoe, threaded one end of the rope through a ventilation slat, then pulled it out through another. I tied both ends together, forming a small loop the size of my head. Finally, I slipped my head through the loop I had made.
I was ready. There was no hesitation.
Only a desire that no longer demanded an explanation.
With one sharp movement of my foot, I kicked away the chair supporting me.
Gravity jerked my body downward. The rope snapped tight, choking my neck without mercy. In that instant, the calm I had felt vanished, replaced by a raw, biological panic. My hands instinctively flew to my throat, struggling frantically to pry the rope loose, but it wouldn't budge. Desperate, my fingers switched to tearing at the wall, my fingernails scraping against peeling paint, searching for a foothold that was no longer there.
My breath hitched, as if the air refused to enter. My vision slowly darkened, leaving black spots dancing at the edge of my consciousness. In the last fading remnants of my mind, my inner voice screamed a final sentence.
I am not worthy of living this life, and I deserve to end like this. Thank you, God.