Yohan got home and tried to creep in his room before anyone could notice him.
"Yohan?" His mother's voice rose from the bedroom across the stairs.
'sh*t!'
"...Ah, Yes?"
"What happened today? Again early?" She stepped out as she spoke. " Why's your uniform soaked?"
"Nothing, I slipped, that's all, so... I had to come early. I'll wash it now—don't worry."
"No." A faint frown creased her face. "Put it in the basket. I'll handle it." She turned back without waiting for an argument.
He changed into clean clothes, dropped the uniform where she said, and retreated to his room.
First instinct: phone.
He scrolled through his inbox, slow, almost expectant. A minute passed. Nothing changed.
"Ha…"
A breath escaped him, tired, hollow. "What am I even waiting for?"
He tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned back in the chair. His gaze settled on the bag slumped on the desk, half-open.
'It's not like I want anyone to remember today anyway.'
He pulled out his diary, and rested the pen on the empty page—hovering. Then scribbled:
'Birthday? A strange ritual, when you think about it.
I never understood why humans celebrate it.
Humans gather once a year to commemorate their own emergence into the world as if existence itself demands applause. For some, it's gratitude turned into ceremony. For others, self-affirmation dressed up as cake and candles. A marker of continuity. Maybe simply staying alive counts as the biggest achievement there is.
From a psychological angle, birthdays function like mirrors.
They don't show who you are.
They show how you feel about being.
To the narcissistic mind, a birthday confirms worth. It says: I am here, and that matters. Each year becomes evidence of progress, accumulation, becoming. Even suffering is reframed as seasoning—necessary, even admirable.
Then there are the pessimists. Maybe I'm one of them. For them, the same date feels intrusive. A reminder of causality of beginnings that led to consequences. The day the chain reaction started. Not a celebration, but an audit. Instead of cake and candles, they carry wishes they'd never say out loud.
Some call life a blessing.
Others experience it as an imposition.
And yet—there are people who celebrate regardless. People who smile while being crushed by time, responsibility, disappointment. Psychologically, they're fascinating. Either profoundly resilient or profoundly dissociated. Maybe both. They don't deny pain; they simply refuse to let it dominate the narrative. Whether that's strength or self-deception is hard to say.
If I reduce birthdays to their core, they split into two meanings.
One:
Gratitude for existence.
Two:
Proximity to nonexistence.
A birthday is also a countdown of one year closer to the end.
Strangely, this makes celebration more logical for those unafraid of death—and less so for those desperate to preserve life. The symbolism flips. Optimism and pessimism swap masks.
Then there's the quiet truth no one likes to admit:
Some people don't celebrate because celebration requires witnesses.
So what does that make me?
Pessimistic? Narcissistic? Nihilistic?
None of the above—and all of them, conditionally.
These aren't identities. They're psychological stances, adaptive responses. Temporary shelters the mind builds depending on weather.
Optimism for endurance.
Pessimism for realism.
Nihilism for detachment.
Stoicism for control.
Dissociation for survival.
I don't belong to one. I move between them.Maybe that's freedom or maybe it's just awareness refusing to stay still.'
"Screw—my back," Yohan yawned. "Enough blabbering. Birthday or not, it's just another day burning off the clock."
He straightened himself. "Time to train!"
He shut the diary and taped a blank sheet to the desk.
'Alright, I'll write my schedule here.'
Two seconds later, he tore it off.
'As if I've ever followed one sincerely. I'll just start.'
He leaned forward, planted his hands, for push-ups—then before even hitting one, he sat back.
'Maybe I should meditate first. A calm mind accelerates the progress of the body. At least, that's the theory.'
Why not just sleep then? The voice of The Lost Origin taunted.
"Oh, shut it. Let me focus." He settled into a cross-legged position, spine straight, hands forming a loose triangle between chest and solar plexus. Eyes half-closed, he focused on his breathing, letting the small clamor in his mind fade.
Two or three minutes passed.
"Yohan!!" his mom called.
His face contorted in silent agony—an overacted grimace, halfway between tears and a twitchy smile.
"Yes…!?" He yelled back.
"Come downstairs. Now."
"Wait—"
He bolted down the stairs and stopped in front of her, one eyebrow lifting on instinct.
"I made potato rice."
"Alright. I'll eat it in my room."
"What's wrong with eating here?"
"Uh— Okay. I'll eat here."
Yohan wolfed down his lunch and hurried to his room. He had barely crossed the doorway when his mom's voice followed him again.
"Yohan! Come downstairs."
He froze, then sighed.
"What happened now?" He called back.
"Come down first."
With visible reluctance, he turned around and went back.
"Yes?"
"I can't reach the cupboard. It's too high," she said, holding up a box. "I need to put this up there."
"Ugh… okay."
He took the box and stretched, rising onto his toes. The cupboard was just a little higher than he'd expected.
"I can't get it. Get me a stool," Yohan said, clicking his tongue.
She smiled. "I thought you'd grown taller, but you're still short. If I had to use a stool, I'd have done it myself. Wait, I'll bring—"
Yohan jumped, a twitchy grin flashing across his face. By a thin margin, he slid the box onto the shelf and pushed it back. "No need. And I'm not short, Mama. I'm at least 177 cm. I just turned seventeen today. I'll grow more."
She laughed softly. "I'm just teasing, my little child. You'll always be a kid to me."
'Nice. Sometimes I'm a kid, sometimes I'm a grown-up—depends on which version works best for her. What a skill Mom posses.' He tiptoed back to his room right after.
"Wait! Take these clothes too and hang them on the roof if the rain's stopped."
Yohan had barely climbed halfway up the stairs when he turned around, came back down, grabbed the clothes, and went up again. He spread them out to dry, the fabric flapping weakly in the leftover damp air.
"Alright," he sighed, tilting his head back. "Now I'll finally do what I planned."
"YOHAN!!"
His shoulders slumped.
"What now?"
"Come fast. Just one more time."
"Screw myself..." He whispered to himself.
'Want me to do that?'
'Eh!? Hell no.' He winced internally and went downstairs again.
"What happened now?" He asked with hand hanging down from mental exhaustion.
"I forgot to tell," she said casually. "I bought a new clock for the vestibule. Help me replace the old one."
"Did the old clock stop working?"
"No, that just doesn't suit the vestibule and this new one is bigger than the old one." She paused, then added, "You can keep the old one in your room."
"No problem" Yohan muffled and took the wall clock from her hand. It was a modern industrial clock with a sleek black frame, bold Olvaran numerals, and exposed golden gears which he replaced with an antique-style clock with an ornate bronze frame and an aged, parchment-toned face. The Olvaran numerals and delicate hands gave it a timeless, nostalgic feel — hanged on the pony wall in the vestibule. Yohan took a brief look at the vintage clock which had gotten slightly dusty from the back. He cleaned it off and took it to his room upstairs.
[Olvaran was an ancient numeric system that emerged during the early formation of the Olvarum Empire and was later formalized under the reign of Cassius Aurelian ΩIII. Olvaran Numerals were believed to be the language of the God Of Order, granting them a sacred status within imperial churches. Ironically, despite this divine association, the system itself was born from common folk—traders, builders, record-keepers—before authority wrapped it in sanctity and restriction.
Certain symbols were regulated with near-religious severity. The Ω symbol, representing eternity, was forbidden for casual use and reserved exclusively for emperors, mythic entities, and monumental inscriptions.
For Example: Cassius Aurelian ΩIII
Spoken as: Cassius Aurelian, Third of Eternity
Its core symbols were:
1 = |
5 = Λ
10 = X
50 = ⊥
100 = ⊗
500 = ⟐
1000 = Ω
Symbols placed left to right in descending value
Repeating a symbol adds value:
||| = 3
Smaller symbol before larger means subtraction:
|Λ = 4
|X = 9
And vice versa:
Λ| = 6
X| = 11
No symbol repeated more than three times.
As commerce expanded and calculations grew complex, Olvaran numerals proved too limited. and were gradually replaced by modern numbering systems. Leaving it for antique décor and ceremonial relics etc.]
'Hm... where should this go?'
His eyes scanned the room until a nail caught his attention—already embedded and perfectly placed. He hung the clock there, in front of the bed, just beside the mirror, a little higher than its frame.
'This mirror doesn't fit here either.'
He took it down from beside the door and shifted it to the wall adjoining the desk and the bed. Now it reflected him even when he was seated.
Then he braced himself to focus on what he was supposed to do a while ago.
"Yohan!" His mother called again.
"What now…?" A tired sigh slipped out before the words did. He headed downstairs anyway.
"Sorry, I just remembered—wash the roof. The dust and rain must've turned it muddy. After that, come back down."
He groaned inwardly. The frustration bubbled up, but showing it would change nothing. So he nodded and went up.
Cleaning the roof took longer than he'd expected. When he was done, he washed his face, the cold water snapping him briefly awake.
"Yohan, you cleaned the roof?" his mother called.
"Yeah," he replied, wiping his wet hands on his
clothes. "Anything else?"
"Yes—just one more thing. Come down."
He stepped into the downstairs room again. "Say it quickly," he said, his tone flatter this time.
"Anyone home?" Siyun's voice chimed in as she entered.
"Yes, Siyun. It's already three?" their mother said, glancing at the watch on her wrist out of habit. Then she turned back to Yohan. "I'm planning to cook meat today. Go buy some from the shop. I've written down the other groceries too."
Yohan exhaled hard. "Okay. But please—this is the last thing. I've got something important to do."
His mother's expression tightened. "Why are you always in a rush? What are you so busy with all the time?"
"Uh… never mind. School work," he said, a little too quickly.
She shook her head. "Listen. You're a man.You need to learn household responsibilities. Regular work. Managing things. Helping the family. Life isn't just whatever you feel like doing."
"Yeah, okay. I'm going," Yohan said, cutting in before the speech could stretch further. "Just give me the grocery bag."
His sister scoffed. "You never listen to Mom. Always doing what you want, ignoring responsibilities, acting like none of this applies to you."
Yohan's gaze dropped. His expression dulled, not angry—just worn. Without replying, he turned and walked toward his room.
"What now?" his sister called after him, sharper. "Do whatever you want later, but first do what Mom told you. All you ever do is eat and sleep for nothing."
"Siyun," their mother murmured, a quiet warning to ease up. Then she turned to him, voice softening into compromise. "Yohan, just help your mama with this and you're free for today." She placed the grocery bag in his hand like a verdict made gentle. "But don't waste time. Study when you come back."
Yohan nodded without resistance. Calm had become his default defense. He took the bag and stepped outside, the door closing behind him with a dull finality.
Berryl Street stretched ahead—narrow alleys, familiar cracks in the pavement, houses that had seen too much routine to feel alive. As he walked, thoughts he had sworn not to revisit rose anyway, looping with mechanical persistence. The same sentences. The same judgments. Over and over, until walking felt automatic and thinking felt distant, like watching himself from a step behind.
He was halfway into that fog when something disrupted the loop.
He noticed a woman dressed in slate-black clothes, slightly worn, but clean—standing near the roadside. Her face was partly covered, her posture folded inward, as if trying to take up less space in the world and was pleading for some help.
Yohan walked further, she wasnt a begger or vagrant. No outstretched bowl, no rehearsed misery. She looked like someone from the same social tier as him and was asking for some sort of financial aid for the treatment of her son whom she conveyed to be in hospital.
A little girl—maybe five or six—clung tightly to her legs. She was clean, small, and painfully innocent, the kind of detail that made it obvious this wasn't a routine of survival but a last resort. They weren't people who had learned to ask the world for help; they were people who had been pushed into it after exhausting every familiar door. Looking closer, Yohan realized they were foreigners—outsiders in both language and belonging—likely wrecked by some quiet collapse like bankruptcy or displacement and what a fate, a mother begging for the life of his son from a society she seemed new to.
What broke Yohan wasn't her desperation. It was the response—or rather, the absence of one.
People passed without acknowledgement. Not cruelty or rejection—something colder. Indifference disguised as efficiency. As if seeing her would require a moral recalibration no one had time for. It wasn't that society refused to help. It simply refused to notice.
He recognized the mechanism instantly. Collective denial. If everyone ignores the problem, the problem ceases to exist—at least psychologically. Responsibility dissolves when it's distributed thin enough.
If it was for an year ago, tears would have already started sliding down, regretfully, he couldn't cry because of his emotional numbing. Yohan felt guilty more then pity and just walked past them trying to shake off what he witnessed.
After a while, he reached the meat shop, bought what was needed and headed back. Midway, his steps faltered, as if his body hesitated before his mind could name the reason.
'This alley is messy.' He thought as he neared the lane where he had seen the woman earlier—something in him resisted going that way again. He turned instead, choosing a side route.
He slipped into the side alley, where the street narrowed and the air felt heavier. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, a practiced avoidance. Still, the mind has its own reflexes. Something ordinary snagged his attention the sight stirred fragments which he'd almost forgotten: half-formed memories, old associations, flashes without names. They impulsively just surfaced in his head and vanished. A boy, barely past childhood, stood by the roadside, cooking and selling hot sausage bread.
Was he doing this because he enjoyed it? Or to support his family? Or to survive in the world of eyes but no heart? Or that's what it means to live childhood for him? Or maybe it was his dream? Or maybe he never got chance to dream for anything? Will he ever be able to see dreams? Yohan looked at him with countless similar questions entangling. But... why?
'It's obvious, he's better than me.'
He kept walking, passing him without slowing down.
'Some people never get to dream while some do they sacrifice it for someone else's dream. And then there's me—unable to chase my own, unable to carry anyone else's.' He sighed. ' I don't even remember what my dream exactly was.'
***
By habit, Yohan slipped silently through the main door to the room across the stairs.
"...No?"
He eavesdropped, catching fragments of his sister and mom's conversation.
"I'm concerned for him more than ever. He wasn't like this before, now he seems detached from everything. I hoped he'd be a supporting hand for us but it doesn't look so."
Yohan stepped back quietly, then clicked the main door to mimic the sound of just entering the house.
"I brought what you asked." Yohan said, handing over the bag with a soft hum, then turned toward the stairs.
"Don't get distracted by other stuffs you like. Leave them for now and focus on your studies," his mother called after him, her tone gentle but firm.
"Hmm... 'kay." Yohan replied as he stepped upstairs into his room.
Creak!
"I saw a dream." Yohan muttered slouching back in the wooden chair. His raised hand eclipsing his face.
When?
The voice of The Lost Origin asked.
"I don't know... Maybe when I was asleep. Or... Maybe when I aspired to grow up. Or maybe when I didn't know the meaning of failure. Or maybe when those eyes used to look at me with hope instead of disappointment."
He turned, meeting his reflection in the mirror beside him.
"...Or maybe when I was still myself."
He paused for a fleeting moment, then a soft smile reflected in the mirror.
"Dreams..." He whispered. "...are meant to be forgotten."