The apartment was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, as if the world outside had deliberately pulled away from it. The usual background noise of the city was gone, leaving only the faint rattle of the window frame as the wind pressed against the glass. Rain tapped steadily against the pane, soft and rhythmic, a sound that might have felt calming to someone else.
For him, it only made the silence heavier.
The air felt thick, unmoving, carrying the weight of a space that had not been spoken in for far too long.
He stood up, breaking the silence in the room.
He moved to the window, the cup of coffee in his hand long since gone cold. He wiped the glass, and the blurred scene became clear cars moving along wet roads, people walking with umbrellas, laughter spilling out from somewhere below.
But none of it had anything to do with him.
He wasn't unhappy, which was strange.
At twenty-nine, just a year away from entering his thirties, his life had settled into something stable and predictable. He had a job that paid on time, a decent place to live, and enough money left each month that he didn't have to worry about the next one.
From a third-person perspective, he was doing fine. Maybe even well, compared to people struggling just to pay their bills.
His days followed a pattern he could predict without checking the time. The alarm rang at the same hour every morning. Breakfast was simple toast, eggs, coffee brewed just strong enough to wake him up. He took the same route to work, passed the same convenience store, nodded at the same security guard whose name he never asked for.
At the office, he was a ghost in a cubicle. He processed data, filed reports, and nodded at colleagues who couldn't quite remember his name. He was the extra chair at the meeting table necessary for the numbers but forgotten the moment the meeting adjourned. He didn't hate the work. He hated that he left no footprint in it.
Lunch breaks were quiet. Sometimes he ate alone at his desk, scrolling through news he barely remembered reading. Other times he joined coworkers, listening more than he spoke. Conversations drifted around him weekend plans, family troubles, small victories that didn't belong to him.
He went home on time. Cooked. Cleaned. Slept.
It wasn't a bad life. That was the problem.
Yet there was no one who would notice if he didn't come home tonight. Or if he disappeared entirely apart from his manager at work.
The thought came uninvited, as most honest ones did.
His phone vibrated briefly on the table.
A message preview appeared at the top of the screen.
"Kaelen, don't forget the report by morning."
— Manager
He exhaled and set the cup down on the small table beside his bed and glanced around the room.
It was just large enough for one person to live comfortably, maybe two if they didn't mind sharing space. Everything was arranged neatly, efficiently. Nothing felt misplaced.
And nothing felt personal either.
The furniture had been chosen for function, not attachment.
His gaze drifted to the bookshelf in the corner. Resting on top of it was a single photo frame, placed there carefully rather than hung on the wall.
It was an old family photo.
His father was still alive then, smiling easily. His mother stood beside him, smiling brightly, her hair thick and unthinned by illness. He had been fifteen, standing awkwardly between them, unsure where to place his hands, forcing a smile for what looked like the perfect picture of a happy family.
He was happy then.
He ran his thumb over the glass of the photo frame on the shelf. Dust had gathered on the edge.
The memory that followed was sharp and unwanted.
Sirens. Smoke. The smell of something burning that never quite left his mind.
He hadn't cried at the funeral. He hadn't known how. Everything had happened too suddenly. The father who had left home that morning after ruffling his hair and telling him not to forget his lunch never came back.
He died in a fire at his workplace.
An accident, they said.
He still remembered someone at the funeral muttering, wrong place at the wrong time. The words followed him for years, hollow and useless. Relatives and acquaintances drifted away one by one, until it was just him and his mother.
She tried to stay strong for him. She raised him alone, even as her body slowly betrayed her.
By the time illness took her too, he was already old enough—mature enough—to understand what it meant to be left behind by the people who mattered most.
Understanding didn't make it easier.
There were moments when he almost reached out to friends, to distant family but the timing never felt right. Everyone seemed to be moving forward, building something new, while he was still learning how to live in the absence of what he had lost.
Eventually, the questions stopped coming. So did the offers of help. Life continued, as it always did, and he followed along because stopping wasn't an option.
He tried to cope. He tried to move on. In the end, he did because there was nothing else to do.
Friends existed, in a technical sense. Coworkers he spoke to during lunch breaks. Old classmates who sent messages on birthdays and festivals but never had the time to meet. People who knew his name, but not his silence.
They all had lives that moved forward, filled with warmth and noise that he never quite fit into.
He was grateful for what he had. He told himself that often. He accepted his life for what it was.
The clock on the wall ticked softly. He checked the time and sighed. It was already late.
Tomorrow was another workday. Another day that would pass the same way as the last. He had grown used to the rhythm wake up, work, return home, sleep.
A life that was simple. Maybe too simple.
A life that left no mark. No memories worth holding onto. Nothing to share with anyone.
Still, he reminded himself that he wasn't special. There were many people living like this. That thought was the only thing that made it bearable.
He poured the untouched coffee down the sink and stood there longer than necessary, watching the dark liquid swirl away.
A strange thought surfaced then, quiet but persistent.
If this is all there is… then what exactly am I waiting for?
He rinsed the cup, dried his hands, and leaned against the counter, his eyes unfocused. He had spent years drifting not aimlessly, but without direction. Responsibility had replaced ambition so gradually that he hadn't noticed when he stopped wanting more.
It wasn't that he lacked desire.
Maybe he just lacked someone to fail.
Tonight felt different. Normally, he would have finished his chores and gone straight to bed. But he couldn't push these thoughts away now. The realization settled heavily in his chest.
His parents would have wanted more for him. He knew that. They had never said it outright, but he remembered the way his father used to ask about his plans in high school. The way his mother watched him with quiet concern whenever he brushed the question aside.
Maybe he had been afraid to face it. Or maybe he simply didn't know how to answer.
He had never been ambitious. Never a genius. Never exceptional. Just average, in most things.
But that wasn't an excuse.
He straightened slowly and let out a quiet sigh.
There was no dramatic revelation. No sudden surge of determination. Just a calm, steady resolve that felt long overdue.
If no one was watching anymore, then he would move forward anyway. Not for praise. Not for recognition. Just to ease the weight of feeling like he had failed them.
Standing still was no longer enough.
He turned off the lights one by one as he moved through the apartment. The living room, the kitchen, the hallway. Each switch clicked softly, the sound lingering a fraction longer than it should have.
The shadows didn't retreat immediately. They clung to the corners of the room, stretching along the walls as if reluctant to let go. He paused in the hallway, glancing back without knowing why.
Nothing was there.
Still, the feeling followed him. The bed dipped slightly when he sat down, adjusting slower than usual. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, counting his breaths. The hum of the city outside rose and fell, uneven, almost rhythmic.
It reminded him of something he couldn't quite place. His chest tightened.
He turned onto his side and reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over the contacts list as names scrolled past coworkers, acquaintances, people he hadn't spoken to in months. Most conversations ended with work-related messages, nothing more.
There was no one he wanted to call. No one he could explain this restlessness to without sounding foolish.
After a moment, he set the phone down.
He closed his eyes, telling himself it was just exhaustion. Just another night ending the same way all the others did.
Sleep came slowly. And when it did, it was anything but peaceful.
He dreamed of long, narrow hallways lined with doors that wouldn't open. He walked barefoot over cold stone, the sound of his steps echoing too loudly in the darkness. Somewhere ahead, a light flickered, always just out of reach.
He tried to call out, but his voice felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
The light dimmed.
Then vanished.
He woke abruptly, breath unsteady. For a moment, the room felt unfamiliar, disorienting. Rain battered the window, sharp and loud, pulling him back to reality. His heart took longer than it should have to calm.
"It's just a dream," he muttered.
But the unease didn't fade.
He sat up, legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and rubbed his face. A strange sensation lingered at the back of his mind, like a word he couldn't quite remember. The details of the dream slipped away, but the feeling remained.
It wasn't fear.
It was something else.
He checked the clock.
4:03 a.m.
The apartment felt smaller than before, the silence pressing in instead of feeling empty. He stood and walked back to the window, looking down at the street below.
The rain-soaked pavement reflected the lights in warped patterns, stretching and bending into unfamiliar shapes. The street that had been full earlier was now empty and still.
For a brief moment, the reflection didn't look like a city at all. It looked older. Stone instead of asphalt.
He blinked, and it was gone.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Just the same street he saw every day.
He exhaled slowly. Fatigue, he told himself. Too many thoughts piled on top of one another.
Still, he didn't return to bed.
He remained by the window as the rain eased and the night thinned into early morning. Cars gradually returned to the roads. People followed soon after, heading to work.
It had been a long time since he had watched the sun rise.
He stood there, his mind empty, unaware that this quiet, unsettled dawn would be the last one he would ever see.