Life.
We all hear this word every day, right? But have you ever wondered what the meaning of life actually is?
I have. Like a curious child, I always wanted to know.
I used to lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, turning that question over and over in my head like a broken record. Does life have a purpose? A grand design? Is there some hidden reason we're all here, scrambling in the dark, trying to figure it out before the clock runs out and your heart stops beating?
But I eventually realized that everyone has a different answer.
Everyone has their own logic, their own little lie they tell themselves to get through the day. Maybe it's because everyone is busy living a life that only they can see.
However… I still found one main ideology that most people cling to. They say life has a meaning. A deeper purpose. Some grand, golden reason you're supposed to figure out before the end.
Honestly? I think that's bullshit.
Some people are just born strong and intelligent. Some are born lucky, cradled by fate. And then there are people like us. We are born just… there. Not special enough to matter, but not useless enough to disappear.
I used to be one of those idiots who believed I was special. Once, I was a kid full of dreams, overflowing with a hope so bright it blinded me. I thought the world was a stage, just waiting for me to take the lead.
But the world doesn't wait. It doesn't applaud. It just grinds you down until the gears of reality crush the hope out of you. It forces you to realize the truth: you aren't the protagonist. You're just background noise.
As I grew up, the truth became simple. I wasn't born special. I was just another face in the crowd, a little bit smart but ultimately replaceable. A nobody that the world could swap out at any second without missing a beat.
I understood my limits early. So, what did I do? I did the only thing I was actually good at.
…I ran.
Pathetic, isn't it? Yeah, it was.
I ran from my grades. I ran from my responsibilities. I ran from my own potential. But most of all, I ran from expectations. I ran from the suffocating fear of failing someone else.
"Expectation." That was the word I feared most. It's a weight that gets heavier every time you look someone in the eye. It's a debt you never asked for, yet everyone expects you to pay. After all, it is human nature to lean on each other—to believe in each other, to expect something from one another.
But a hard fact is also true: nothing is free in this world. Even your parents, who have known you since the day you were born, who have fed you your whole life—they expect something in return. Result? Success? Money? Love? Or just proof that you didn't fail?
Maybe they never demanded anything. But expectations don't need to be spoken to exist. They exist to give hope…
I stopped expecting anything from the world, desperately hoping the world would stop expecting anything from me in return.
And if you're wondering why? Why I ran?
I was just… tired.
I would try, I really would, but never more than my potential allowed.
When people realize they aren't special, what do they do? Some try harder, fueled by a desperate need to prove they exist. But I am not them. Why would I waste my time on something that would never benefit me? Why struggle just to "show" people I was trying?
Effort that leads nowhere isn't hope—it's just a performance.
What is the point of showing? Showing my parents that their kid is "trying his best"? I didn't want to give them false hope. To me, doing nothing was better than building a tower on a foundation of baseless dreams.
So, I simply stopped caring or at least, I pretended I did.
However, my parents… they never stopped me.
Not even once.
Maybe it was because they loved me too much. Or maybe they were waiting for the "real" me to wake up from this long, lazy slumber. I never saw anger in their eyes. Just that look.
That soft, crushing… disappointment. Or was it pity?
That look broke me more than a scream ever could. Which parents want to see their child like that? No one. They want to see their kids grow, to see them stand tall and become successful.
I couldn't stand it. I didn't deserve that kind of unconditional love, so I did what I knew best.
I left.
I walked away from my home, hoping that if I disappeared, they would finally forget about me. I wanted them to think the burden was gone. I wanted them to live their own lives without wasting their precious time on someone as worthless as me.
But how silly of me. I underestimated a parent's heart. They still texted. They even sent money, hoping their kid might need it, even if he wouldn't talk to them. Every notification on my phone was a digital scream, a reminder of what a cowardly bastard I was.
And like the bastard I am, I never answered. I stayed hidden. I never saw their faces again from the day I walked out that door.
…And now, here I am.
Life is truly a bitch with a twisted sense of humor. I spent my whole life running from expectations, running from people so they wouldn't lean on me, only to die because I couldn't ignore the look of hope in a stranger's eyes. She expected me to save her.
And for the first time in my life… I didn't run.
The sound of my heart was fading now, becoming a distant, muffled thump. The cold, wet pavement of the alleyway was actually starting to feel warm—a strange, welcoming heat. I guess it isn't bad, dying like this. At least I'm dying while doing something good.
I just hope my parents don't cry too much for their troublesome son. My biggest regret is not meeting them one last time.
Not living up to their hopes.
…I am sorry for everything.
___
I waited for the darkness. I waited for the "nothing" that comes after the "everything."
But it didn't come.
Wait. How can I still be thinking? Is there a waiting room for heaven? Or am I headed straight down to the pit?
Suddenly, I didn't feel the ground anymore. I felt weightless, drifting in a sea of nothingness. Then, a sensation hit me—a sharp grip on the back of my neck, like a cat being lifted by its scruff.
There was a violent pull. It felt like my soul was being squeezed through a keyhole, my very essence being stretched and distorted.
Then, I saw a light.
It wasn't a soft, holy glow. It was a blinding, aggressive white that burned behind my eyelids, searing into my mind. The light swallowed the darkness, swallowed the alley, swallowed me.
No tunnel. No angels. No demonic laughter. Just… mixing.
Colors bled into each other—the sickly yellow of the streetlamp, the metallic red of my blood, the deep navy of the night sky—all swirling together like paint in a bucket of water. Sounds melted: the girl's scream, my own ragged breath, the chime of my mom's text tone… all smearing into one long, distorted frequency.
Is this dying? Or is this traveling?
I couldn't tell if I was moving or standing still. Time didn't exist here. There was no up, no down. Just the drift.
Then, a voice spoke. It wasn't in my ears; it felt like it was etched into the air itself. Genderless. Timeless. Empty.
"Ah…"
But before I could even finish the thought of "What?", the light pulsed. Once. Twice.
Snap!
Everything went dark. Not a peaceful dark, but a heavy, suffocating weight.
The voice faded, but the pain arrived. It started as a dull throb behind my eyes and then spread—a deep, body-wide ache, like I'd been hit by a truck and dragged through gravel. My mouth tasted like copper and cheap, bitter alcohol. My head was pounding in time with a heartbeat that felt too slow, too labored.
And my body… it felt heavy. Wrong. Like I was wearing someone else's skin.
I blinked, trying to open my eyes. Everything was a blur. Shapes moved at the edge of my vision, shadows dancing in a dim, flickering light.
"…Ugh."
My voice came out rough. Deep. Unfamiliar.
Where was I? This wasn't my apartment. This wasn't the store. The last thing I remembered was the alley. The knife. The cold.
…Right. I was stabbed. I was dying. And then… that light.
"…What the hell?"
I pushed myself up on my elbows and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea hit me, my stomach twisting as the room spun. I was on a bed. A massive, too-soft bed with sheets that felt like cold silk against my skin.
The room was enormous. High, vaulted ceilings. A fireplace crackled across from me, casting flickering orange light over furniture that screamed "old money."
What…?
I looked down at my hands. They were… different. Paler. Softer. There was a bandage wrapped around my left wrist, but beneath it, the skin looked untouched by a lifetime of labor or manual work.
And my body…
I was skinny and weak. Slump-shouldered, soft-bellied—the kind of body that gets tired from walking up a flight of stairs. It was a body that had never known a day of discipline.
"…No."
My heart started hammering against my ribs, an erratic, heavy rhythm. This wasn't right. This was impossible.
I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaky and uncoordinated. I nearly fell, my center of gravity shifting in ways I wasn't used to. There was a full-length, gold-trimmed mirror against the far wall. I forced myself toward it, my breath coming in short, wheezing bursts.
I stopped. I stared.
The man in the reflection stared back.
Black hair, messy and matted. Deep Ocean Blue eyes—eyes that would have been striking if the face wasn't so gaunt and tired. He was wearing silk pajamas that stretched uncomfortably tight around his middle.
He looked defeated. Even standing still, he looked like a man who had given up a long time ago.
I reached up, my trembling fingers touching my cheek. The man in the mirror did the same.
I wasn't me anymore.
"…This isn't me."