Chapter 4
At first, the shock of it made his chest tighten.
Two months.
Sixty days of silence.
But that feeling didn't last long.
Silas stared at the screen in his hand, the soft blue glow of the phone illuminating his face in the dark. His breath, though still, carried no weight now. The panic had melted off his skin like the cocoon had two hours ago.
And deep in his heart—somewhere far below the surface—he realized something:
He wasn't surprised.
Not really.
He'd been startled. Stunned. But not shocked. It felt too... familiar.
Like a quiet truth he'd buried long ago. One that had waited patiently for the right moment to rise.
People forget you.
That thought floated in his mind, gentle as a whisper, heavy as a stone.
---
He picked the phone up off the floor and sat on the edge of his couch. His thumb began to scroll. App after app. Post after post.
Photos.
Videos.
Stories.
His classmates had been living full lives.
There were selfies from hallways, game night photos, videos of a school trip to the coast, someone sharing a win at the basketball tournament.
A girl he used to sit next to in English class had dyed her hair blonde.
One of his close friends had posted a funny reel at the arcade.
People smiling. Laughing. Captioned with emojis. Time stamps.
Days. Weeks.
Two whole months.
The world hadn't paused for him.
The world had simply... moved on.
---
He opened his messages.
Nothing.
No texts.
Not even one.
No "Where are you?"
No "You okay?"
No "We miss you."
Just silence.
He opened his call log. The last call was from a random pizza place two months ago. That was it.
He walked to the front door, bare feet quiet against the wood floor. He opened it and looked around.
No letters.
No packages.
No notes slipped under the door.
No one had come looking.
Not once.
Silas leaned against the doorframe, staring out into the hallway of the apartment building. It was clean, quiet. Same flickering light overhead. Same dull smell of cheap cleaning fluid.
He stood there for a full minute.
Nothing.
---
He stepped back inside and closed the door behind him.
The lock clicked. The silence grew.
And then... something inside him broke, but not in a loud way.
It was subtle.
Like a thread snapping.
Like breath slowly being held for too long, until it vanished altogether.
His shoulders didn't shake. His eyes didn't tear. His fists didn't clench.
He just... stood there.
Despondent.
Not angry. Not sad. Not hateful.
Just empty.
---
All his life, Silas had believed in one thing.
Be good to people.
Smile at strangers. Hold the door. Help when you can. Show love. Offer kindness. And the world would do the same.
He remembered telling himself that every day. That the world was built on mirrors—what you gave would be reflected back to you.
But now... standing alone in a dust-covered apartment, after vanishing for two entire months with no one noticing... the mirror felt broken.
He didn't hate them.
He wasn't bitter toward any one person.
He didn't think they meant harm.
But he saw the truth now.
The truth no one wanted to say out loud:
People only remember you when you're convenient.
And once you're gone… really gone… it doesn't take long for them to replace your space with noise, with faces, with life.
Even those closest to him.
Even the ones who laughed with him, cried with him, shared secrets in the hallway after school or rode bikes around the block in summer.
Two months.
Not a single call.
Not one knock on his door.
Not one, "Hey, you okay?"
And that…
That made Silas feel something worse than sadness.
It made him feel like he always knew.
Like deep down, he had always sensed it. That people were built this way. Forgetful. Self-centered. Busy. That his warmth was something easy to accept—but not something anyone would return.
That his place in their lives was... optional.
Replaceable.
Forgettable.
---
He walked back to the mirror in the bathroom.
Looked at himself again.
This tall, unfamiliar version of Silas. Hair longer. Eyes sharper. Skin tighter around new muscle.
He looked older.
He looked colder.
But most of all... he looked alone.
Not in a tragic way.
Not in a poetic, lonely-boy sense.
Just... real.
Alone in the purest way a person can be.
He leaned forward and stared into his own eyes.
They didn't flinch.
They didn't ask why.
They already knew.
---
He walked out again, this time into the kitchen. Poured a glass of water and drank half of it before setting it down. His phone buzzed softly—notifications finally catching up.
Another basketball post.
Another group selfie.
A meme in the group chat. One he was never removed from. Just... ignored.
He didn't respond.
Didn't open it.
Didn't type a single word.
Because what could he say?
What did it matter?
---
He returned to the window.
The street outside was quiet. Lights glowing in windows. Cars parked along the curb. People living.
Silas wasn't angry at them for that.
He didn't hate them for forgetting.
But he had changed.
And deep down, he knew this was the moment he'd stop pretending otherwise.
That part of him—the part that wanted to believe in the goodness of people no matter what—had finally exhaled its last breath.
He wouldn't stop being kind.
But he'd never again expect the world to return it.
---
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