Morning.
The alarm rings at 6:47.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just repetitive.
A sound that has become part of the walls themselves.
For several seconds *** doesn't move.
His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling above him while the alarm continues vibrating softly against the wooden nightstand beside the bed.
The room is gray.
Cold morning light leaks weakly through the curtains.
The air smells faintly of dust and old clothes.
Finally—
his hand reaches toward the phone blindly.
The alarm stops.
Silence returns immediately.
And somehow—
that silence feels heavier than the noise did.
slowly sits up.
His hair falls into his face now.
Longer than before.
Messier.
The dark roots more visible.
The blond ends slightly ruined and dry.
He rubs his eyes once.
Then stands.
Bathroom.
Mirror.
Cold water.
Every morning starts the same now.
He stares at his own reflection for a little too long.
At first—
weeks ago—
he used to still react to it.
The dark circles under his eyes worried him.
The emptiness in his expression scared him slightly.
Now—
he just looks tired.
Not emotionally.
Existentially.
Like somebody who stopped expecting himself to improve.
He washes his face.
Gets dressed.
Black hoodie.
School uniform underneath.
Then silence again.
No music.
No thoughts.
Just movement.
Like his body learned routine while his mind slowly disappeared somewhere else.
School.
Hallways.
Voices.
Life.
People laughing loudly beside classrooms.
Someone yelling from the second floor.
A teacher dragging papers through the corridor impatiently.
Everything feels distant to *** now.
Like the world exists one room away from him at all times.
He walks through the hallway with his hands inside his pockets.
Headphones around his neck.
No music playing.
Students move around him naturally.
Some bump shoulders against him accidentally.
He barely notices anymore.
Then—
"Cri!"
Omar's voice.
*** slows slightly.
Omar jogs over beside him holding two coffees in one hand awkwardly.
His dark curls slightly messy from the rain outside.
And immediately—
there it is again.
That expression.
Worry.
Always worry now.
"You left without saying anything yesterday."
*** shrugs lightly.
"…Sorry."
Omar studies his face carefully.
"You okay?"
Automatic answer.
"…Yeah."
Lie.
Omar knows it's a lie immediately.
But instead of arguing—
he just sighs quietly.
"You missed like twelve messages."
"…My phone died."
Another lie.
The worst part is how easy lying has become lately.
Not intentional lies.
Just easier than explaining.
Easier than speaking honestly.
Because honesty requires energy.
And *** barely has enough energy to exist lately.
Omar hands him one of the coffees.
"…You should eat something too."
*** takes it quietly.
"…Thanks."
Then silence.
Again.
The conversations always die now.
Like neither of them knows how to reach the other anymore.
Omar clearly wants to say more.
But *** already starts walking again.
And slowly—
Omar follows anyway.
Days pass.
Then more.
The routine repeats endlessly.
Wake up.
School.
Silence.
Home.
Sleep.
Again.
Again.
Again.
At first—
Ian and Omar still try constantly.
Especially Omar.
Omar waits for him after class.
Texts him every night.
Sits beside him during lunch even when *** barely speaks.
He keeps trying to pull him back into conversations.
Trying to make him laugh again.
Trying to remind him who he used to be.
But every attempt feels like throwing rope toward someone already sinking willingly.
And Ian notices it first.
Rainy afternoon.
Classroom almost empty now.
Students leaving slowly.
Ian sits across from *** while tapping a pencil aggressively against the desk.
"You know what I don't get?"
*** keeps staring at the notebook in front of him.
Blank page.
He hasn't written anything in twenty minutes.
Ian leans forward slightly.
"How do you manage to look THIS absent all the time?"
No answer.
Ian laughs once.
Short.
Irritated.
"No seriously."
He gestures toward him.
"You're physically here but mentally you look fucking dead."
Omar immediately sighs.
"Ian…"
"No, don't 'Ian' me."
His irritation grows instantly.
"Look at him."
Silence.
*** finally speaks quietly.
"I'm listening."
Ian stares at him.
Then suddenly snaps.
"THAT'S the problem."
The classroom goes quiet.
Even Omar looks surprised.
Ian points toward *** angrily.
"You always answer like some emotionless robot now."
*** blinks slowly.
Ian continues.
"You don't react to anything anymore."
Another pause.
"You don't laugh."
"You don't get angry."
"You barely even look at people when they talk to you."
His voice lowers slightly now.
More frustrated than angry.
"It's fucking creepy."
Silence.
*** lowers his gaze slightly.
And somehow that only irritates Ian more.
"You know what's worse?"
Ian laughs bitterly.
"We keep trying."
His jaw tightens visibly.
"And you keep acting like none of it matters."
Omar quietly interrupts again.
"He's trying too."
"No he's NOT."
Ian immediately fires back.
"He stopped trying weeks ago."
That sentence lingers heavily in the room.
Because deep down—
all three of them know Ian is partially right.
*** used to at least pretend better.
Now he barely even does that.
More days pass.
And slowly—
small changes begin appearing.
At first almost invisible.
Then impossible to ignore.
*** stops answering messages entirely some nights.
Then most nights.
He starts leaving school immediately after classes end.
No goodbye.
No explanations.
Sometimes Omar catches up to him outside.
Sometimes he doesn't.
And every single time—
*** looks more distant than before.
Like someone slowly fading photograph by photograph.
His hair grows longer.
Messier.
The blond tips more visible now.
The dark circles beneath his eyes deepen every week.
His face becomes thinner too.
Sharper.
Older somehow.
Not physically.
Internally.
Like stress has started carving itself directly into his expression.
Then one afternoon—
Omar finally catches him before he leaves school.
Rain pours outside heavily.
Students crowd near the entrance waiting for it to calm down.
*** stands near the wall silently with his hood up.
Omar walks toward him slowly.
"…Cri."
No response at first.
Then finally:
"…Yeah?"
Omar hesitates.
That hesitation hurts more than anger ever could.
Because Omar genuinely doesn't want this conversation.
But he knows he has to say something now.
"You've been disappearing."
Silence.
"You don't answer anybody anymore."
*** looks away slightly.
"…I'm just tired."
Omar exhales shakily.
"No."
That answer surprises even *** slightly.
Omar's voice becomes quieter now.
More painful.
"You're giving up."
Silence.
Rain crashes loudly outside.
Students continue talking around them.
But the conversation suddenly feels isolated from the rest of the world.
Omar's eyes look exhausted now too.
Like he hasn't been sleeping properly either.
"I keep trying to understand."
His voice cracks slightly.
"I really do."
*** says nothing.
Because honestly—
he doesn't know how to explain something he barely understands himself.
Omar continues quietly.
"But you push everyone away every single time we get close again."
Another pause.
"And I don't know how to help someone who clearly doesn't want help anymore."
That sentence hurts.
More than it should.
Because Omar says it without anger.
Only sadness.
Pure disappointment.
And disappointment always feels heavier than rage.
*** finally whispers softly:
"…Sorry."
Omar closes his eyes briefly.
"…That's all you ever say now."
Then the bell rings somewhere behind them.
And for a moment neither moves.
Then Omar quietly walks away.
Not angrily.
Which somehow hurts worse.
Because he looks defeated.
Ian reacts differently.
Ian becomes meaner.
Sharper.
Because anger is easier for him than sadness.
Lunch break.
The cafeteria loud around them.
Ian slams his tray onto the table aggressively.
"I'm tired of this shit."
Omar immediately looks up.
"Ian—"
"No."
Ian points directly at *** now.
"No because this is actually getting pathetic."
Students nearby glance toward them briefly.
*** barely reacts.
That lack of reaction only fuels Ian further.
"You know what pisses me off?"
His voice rises slightly.
"You act like YOU'RE the only one hurting."
Silence.
"We all lost people."
Ian's eyes burn angrily now.
"We all got fucked up."
Another pause.
"But at least we're TRYING to stay human."
The sentence lands heavily.
Still—
*** says nothing.
And that finally breaks something inside Ian.
He laughs bitterly.
"…Look at you."
His expression twists with frustration.
"You don't even care enough to defend yourself anymore."
That one is true.
Painfully true.
Because somewhere along the way—
*** stopped believing he deserved defending.
Ian stands abruptly.
Chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"You know what?"
His breathing uneven now.
"Maybe Cristian was right about you."
Omar immediately stands too.
"IAN."
Too late.
The sentence already exists now.
Silence crushes the table instantly.
Ian freezes slightly too.
Like he regrets it immediately.
But pride keeps him standing.
And for the first time in weeks—
*** actually reacts.
Not emotionally.
Worse.
His eyes simply become emptier.
Like something inside him shuts off completely.
Ian notices instantly.
And suddenly—
he looks guilty.
But instead of apologizing—
he grabs his backpack aggressively.
"…Forget it."
Then walks away.
Fast.
Like escaping his own words.
Omar remains standing there silently.
Looking at *** with exhausted sadness.
Then finally whispers:
"…I miss you."
And that sentence hurts more than everything else combined.
Because it sounds genuine.
Like mourning somebody still alive.
Weeks continue passing.
And eventually—
people stop trying as hard.
Not because they stop caring.
Because they become tired.
That's the tragedy of depression.
It doesn't only exhaust the person suffering.
It exhausts everyone reaching toward them too.
*** notices the distance growing slowly.
The messages become less frequent.
The invitations stop.
Conversations shorten.
And somehow—
he can't even blame them.
Because honestly—
being around him has become exhausting.
Even he knows that.
By now his thoughts barely move anymore.
He stops overthinking.
Stops analyzing.
Stops imagining things constantly.
His mind becomes quieter.
More numb.
And that silence terrifies him far less than it should.
Because numbness feels easier than pain.
One night—
very late—
*** walks alone through the city.
Cold wind moves softly around him.
The river below reflects pale streetlights.
And eventually—
he reaches the bridge.
He climbs onto the edge slowly.
Then sits there.
One leg hanging slightly over the side.
The wind moves through his now longer hair softly.
The blond ends shifting against the darkness.
His hood rests down tonight.
His face visible beneath the pale city lights.
Thin.
Exhausted.
Dark circles beneath his eyes deep enough to make him look sick.
His adolescent beard beginning to shadow his jaw unevenly now.
And for a very long time—
he simply stares forward silently.
Cars move distantly below.
Water shifts quietly beneath him.
The city continues living around him.
Completely unaware.
Then finally—
softly—
*** speaks.
"Heavy disappointment…"
The wind carries the words into the night.
"…always comes from the people you expected the most."
Silence follows immediately afterward.
And somehow—
the city feels colder than before.