There are moments in life when everything feels like it's slipping through our fingers like butter. Sometimes, we wake up, look ourselves in the mirror, and wonder what any of this means—the routines, the goals, the endless chase for something we can't quite name... but imagine about.
We try to fill the silence with noise, to find purpose in busy hands and tired minds, but deep down, a voice whispers:
What is the point of it all?
Why am I doing this?
What's the end?
Can we reach the end?
Every second feels heavier than the last, burying you under it.
Every minute stretches out, long and shapeless... feeling like a curse.
Every action loses its colour, its meaning, its reason.
It's like walking through a fog that never clears... and never will. Yet, we keep moving, not out of hope, but out of habit. A habit that's meaningless.
The laughter of others feels distant, and even our own victories taste dull. The people around us talk, dream, plan their futures—and we nod along, pretending we understand, pretending we still care.
But do we care?
Do we really?
If yes, then why?
Why do we care?
For some humans, in this emptiness, there's a strange kind of honesty. Maybe it's life's way of pausing them—of stripping away illusions until they are forced to confront themselves. Meaning doesn't always exist in grand plans or shining moments. Sometimes it hides in the quiet—in the smallest breaths, in the act of simply surviving another day. This act of surviving everyday becomes their goal—a lie that makes them think everything is alright.
They think meaning can return slowly, unexpectedly— like sunlight sneaking past the clouds after a long storm. It might come from someone's kindness, the sound of rain, or the realization that they are still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling something again.
But can they do truly?
What if this feeling is fake?
What if we can't feel?
We may not always know what to do with our lives. But maybe the first step is learning to sit in the uncertainty, to accept that not knowing is also a part of being human. But I am not a human. I don't even know what I am anymore.
"ARGGHHH!"
Screaming loudly, I overturned the table. A deafening crash pierced the silence that had wrapped around me for a week—heavy, suffocating, and unbroken until now. Fragments of glass from a fallen vase scattered across the floor, glittering in the light like cruel little stars. My hands trembled as I reached for the nearest thing—a cup—and hurled it toward the mirror. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and for the first time in days, I heard something other than my own thoughts echoing back at me.
"I FUCKING WANT TO BURN THIS WHOLE WORLD!" I screamed again, my voice raw, throat torn from rage. "ARGHH!" Why should this world remain peaceful if I am not?
The sound ripped through the room, sharp and desperate—half fury, half agony. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing down on me, begging to swallow me whole. My breath came in ragged gasps as I stared at the destruction around me—the overturned table, the shards of broken glass catching glints of light, my reflection split across the shattered mirror.
That reflection... it didn't even look like me anymore. Eyes wild. Face pale. Lips trembling. What had I become? I didn't know if I was angry at the world, or at myself for still existing in it.
But should I even exist?
What's the meaning of my existence?
Ain't I just a mistake?! A fucking cosmic joke?!
What the fuck am I?!
Who the fuck am I?!
Every thought, every memory, every regret had been building like smoke inside me, choking out reason, until there was only fire left.
A week ago, I came back to my apartment, sealing me off from the outside world completely.
Tears leaked from my eyes as I desperately tried to stop them. I was lost—utterly lost. It was as if someone had pushed me into an abyss, with no way to return. But maybe there is a way to return—but I don't want. Maybe I have accepted that this abyss was now my home.
Was I Alex? The same Alex, who was an introvert—liked to write stories—a pathetic writer,
Or...
Was I Sharon? Emperor of Charatshore, who would have joined the protagonist's harem in the future?
I don't know—I fucking don't know! Everything feels so painful. It's like thousands of bugs were crawling over my skin, making me want to shred this skin completely.
A writer... am I really a writer? That world was different—utterly different from my story. Fucking different! Did I even write that story? Or, someone controlled my thoughts?
That Sharon... who killed me... was she really her? Why did she kill me? Did someone control her? If I am not the original Alex, then... why did she kill me? She had no fucking right!
"If s-someone... is observing... me, just k-kill... me. End... it... just end it. FUCKING END IT!"
Were these words truly even mine? Or, controlled by someone else?
I am an orphan, never cared by anyone. But this helplessness? I never felt it. Never.
Countless thoughts are dancing inside my brain, bombarding my head constantly. It makes me want to smash my head somewhere, freeing myself not only from these pesky thoughts but also, from this world. This existence.
But then again—what if someone was also controlling my death too?
If someone was controlling my actions, could they have made my life better? Could I also have my own parents with me? Could my life have been like the other normal kids?
I am a fool. A fucking fool.
There is no bigger fool than me.
Why am I asking these questions now? The moment I had transmigrated into that world—everything should have become clear to me. I should have already understood everything. Ruby's words were the proof that everything was controlled by some fucking agencies, which think themselves—as masters, who have power to decide everything.
Suddenly, someone knocked at my door. I wiped away my tears, standing up to open it. But before I could reach the door, it opened by itself, revealing a very familiar figure.
Ruby.