"Trr… trrr…"
The alarm buzzed weakly on the nightstand.
A young man lay in bed, unmoving, asleep so deeply it looked like nothing in the world could reach him. But after a few minutes, he suddenly sat up straight — as if he had been a soldier his whole life.
Zayn didn't wake up because he had slept enough.
He woke up because his body was trained to.
Routine. Instinct. Habit.
He dragged himself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, but the exhaustion didn't fade. The dark circles, the lifeless eyes, the gloomy expression… they stayed.
Zayn wasn't always like this.
Once, he had been a cheerful, promising kid — until that day, five years ago.
A day he still saw in his nightmares, every single night.
The sky had turned darker and heavier, like a storm that refused to break. People looked strangely tired — not the normal kind, but a deep, unnatural exhaustion that spread from house to house, street to street.
By noon, it had become clear.
People were collapsing… asleep.
Not an ordinary sleep.
But an eternal one.
They couldn't be woken, no matter what anyone tried. Yet their hearts continued to beat. Their bodies stayed warm. They were alive… but unreachable.
Governments worldwide panicked. Emergency measures were taken. The victims were labeled "Sleepers" and cared for in hospitals and shelters — but nothing was free. Families were forced to pay, and many collapsed under the financial weight.
Zayn had been at school that day, listening to a lecture. At first, he didn't notice anything strange. But gradually, some of his classmates — and even the teacher — started to sway, their eyelids drooping mid-conversation.
Then, suddenly, they all collapsed at once.
At first, Zayn thought it was some weird prank. But the confused and terrified faces around him told him it wasn't.
He jumped from his seat and tried shaking the teacher awake.
Nothing.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway — fast, frantic.
The school director burst into the classroom, pale and sweating, shouting:
"Did anyone fall asleep in here!? Anyone!?"
We were shocked. We had never seen the strict director look so pale and terrified, like he had seen death itself. Then he spoke, voice trembling:
"There is a world crisis… people all around the globe passed out simultaneously."
Zayn's face drained of color. Sweat slid down his forehead. His mind instantly jumped to his family—something terrible must have happened. A cold pressure squeezed his chest. Before anyone could stop him, Zayn sprinted out of the school. His vision blurred, his legs felt heavier with every step, but he kept running, praying, begging that his family was safe.
When he reached his home, he knocked on the door.
No response.
His hands shook as he searched his pocket for the keys.
The door opened.
His father was lying on the couch, "watching" the TV frozen on a news channel. His little sister Annie had collapsed on the carpet with her favorite doll still in her hands. His mother was slumped over the kitchen table, knife beside the half-cut vegetables.
Zayn didn't scream.
He couldn't.
His throat was locked.
He fell to his knees and tried to shake them awake, but nothing worked. His heart hammered violently as he tried calling the emergency hotline.
"No signal. Try again later."
Every call. Every attempt.
The world had gone silent.
Days later, the government announced that the so-called "sleepers" weren't dead. They were alive—but trapped in a deep, unreachable sleep. No method worked: not pain, not medicine, not electric stimulation. Nothing. Centers were built to take care of sleepers until a cure was found.
At first, the government paid for everything.
Six months later, the funding stopped.
The caregivers became expensive. Too expensive.
Zayn had no choice. He took a part-time job—then another one.
He finished high school while working two jobs, barely sleeping, barely eating. Every visit to the center felt harder than the last, watching his family's bodies alive but motionless, as if time had stopped only for them.
Weeks turned into months.
Months turned into years.
Zayn built a routine that felt more like a punishment than a life:
Wake up.
Work.
Study.
Second job.
Visit the care center.
Repeat.
Sometimes he fell asleep on the bus.
Sometimes he woke up not knowing what day it was.
Sometimes he stared at his family through the glass window, wondering if they could hear him… or if they were drifting further away every day.
The bills kept rising.
The hours at work kept increasing.
His grades slipped, then climbed, then slipped again.
His body felt heavier every morning.
His mind felt emptier every night.
He wasn't living—he was enduring.
But every time he wanted to collapse, he remembered Annie's small hand holding her doll… and he forced himself to stand again.
One night, after finishing his second shift, Zayn walked home alone. Rain soaked through his clothes. His legs trembled. His chest hurt with every breath.
The rain didn't stop.
It fell harder, like the sky was trying to drown the whole world.
Zayn walked alone through the empty street, shoulders trembling, breath shallow.
His clothes were soaked. His hands felt numb. His mind felt heavy, like it was cracking under its own weight.
For years he held everything together.
For years he carried more than any eighteen-year-old should.
For years he kept telling himself, "Just one more day."
But tonight… tonight felt like the end.
His legs stopped moving.
He stood in the middle of the street, staring at the ground.
"I work… and work… and work…" he whispered, voice breaking.
"And nothing changes… nothing gets better…"
His throat tightened. His vision blurred.
And then, without warning, the words slipped out—raw, poisonous, unforgivable.
"…I wish they just died."
The moment he heard his own voice saying it, something inside him shattered.
His eyes widened.
His heart dropped.
His lungs froze.
"No. No—no, what the hell is wrong with me?" Zayn choked.
He slapped himself across the face—hard.
The sound echoed in the empty street.
Again.
And again.
"Stop it… STOP IT!" he shouted, hitting himself like he was trying to erase the words.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed to his knees on the wet pavement.
And then it all came out.
Zayn pressed his forehead against the cold ground and cried.
Not the quiet tears he used to hide in the bathroom at work.
No—this was agony.
This was guilt tearing him apart from the inside.
"I didn't mean it… I didn't mean it… please… I'm sorry…"
His voice broke with every word.
The rain mixed with his tears until he couldn't tell them apart.
In that moment, he wasn't the strong one anymore.
He wasn't the responsible son.
He wasn't the boy who kept going no matter what.
He was just a broken young man, drowning in guilt and exhaustion.
Alone.
And at his absolute limit.