"What have I done…? No more importantly… what should I do…?"
The weather couldn't have been more perfect. A vast stretch of soft grey clouds blanketed the evening sky, diffusing the sunlight into a calm, silver glow that settled gently over everything below. A cool breeze drifted lazily through the air, carrying with it just enough chill to make people feel comfortable rather than cold, the kind of weather that made you want to pause and exist in the moment a little longer.
In the nearby park, life moved at an unhurried pace children ran across the grass in chaotic patterns, their laughter rising and falling like a melody without structure, while their parents sat on worn wooden benches, exchanging complaints about work, responsibilities, and the general unfairness of adulthood as if it were a shared ritual.
A few elderly couples walked along the stone pathways, their steps slow but steady, their conversations quiet and familiar, occasionally pausing to appreciate the serenity around them. It was, by all accounts, an ordinary evening peaceful, predictable, and almost picture-perfect in its simplicity.
And then, something unusual appeared.
At first, it was barely noticeable a tiny black speck against the layered clouds, so small that it could have easily been dismissed as a trick of the eye. But children notice things adults ignore, and it wasn't long before a few of them pointed upward, their playful energy momentarily redirected into curiosity.
From that distance, the object lacked any defining features; it wasn't glowing like a meteor, nor did it trail flames or light, yet its steady descent through the sky gave it an otherworldly quality. To their young minds, eager to believe in small miracles, the explanation came naturally.
"A shooting star!" one of them shouted, and the others followed without question, clasping their hands together, squeezing their eyes shut, and whispering wishes they hoped the universe might hear. None of them realized that what they were watching was neither celestial nor magical, but something far more unfortunate.
Because that black speck was me.
At the moment, I am falling. Not metaphorically, not emotionally though that might also be true but physically, rapidly, and with alarming efficiency. Gravity has taken full control of the situation, and I am currently plummeting toward the ground at what I can only assume is terminal velocity.
The wind howls past my ears in a continuous roar, loud enough to drown out coherent thought, yet somehow not enough to stop my brain from replaying every questionable decision I have ever made. With nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop my descent, and absolutely no plan for survival, my mind has chosen the most appropriate course of action available: overthinking. And so, as the distance between me and the ground shrinks at an increasingly concerning rate, I find myself retracing the exact sequence of events the chain of poor judgment, exhaustion, and sheer stupidity that led me to this very moment.
Which means, unfortunately, we have to go back.
Not forward. Not sideways. Back.
A little earlier.
"Man… I should've done my assignments on time but whatever. It's finally done. Time to watch some anime before I sleep."
That voice, heavy with exhaustion and lacking any real enthusiasm, belongs to me specifically, the version of me that existed before gravity decided to make me its personal project. At the time, I was seated at a desk that could only be described as a battlefield of academic negligence, its surface buried beneath stacks of papers, notebooks, and half-finished scribbles that collectively represented an entire semester's worth of ignored responsibility.
I am nineteen years old, with black hair, dark brown eyes, and what I would modestly classify as above-average looks though any advantage in appearance was currently overshadowed by the dark circles under my eyes, which had deepened to the point of becoming defining facial features. Those weren't just signs of fatigue; they were evidence, a visual record of the decisions that had brought me here.
For the entirety of the semester, I had not completed a single assignment. Not one. Each task had been postponed with the confidence of someone who believed there would always be more time, right up until the moment that time ran out. The university, in its infinite wisdom, had established a simple rule: all assignments must be submitted before the semester break, or the break itself would be revoked. Faced with the horrifying possibility of losing my vacation, I did what any rational, well-adjusted individual would do.
I abandoned sleep entirely. Five consecutive nights passed in a blur of caffeine, desperation, and increasingly questionable handwriting, as I forced myself to complete months worth of work in a timeframe that could only be described as unreasonable. And somehow, through a combination of panic and sheer stubbornness, I succeeded.
Which, naturally, led me to believe I had earned the right to relax.
My plan was simple: watch a little anime, then sleep. A reward system, in theory. In practice, however, it quickly devolved into an endless cycle of scrolling, indecision, and "just one more episode" logic, until the concept of time itself began to lose meaning.
At some point though I couldn't say exactly when I had the brief, miraculous thought that perhaps I should stop and go to sleep, especially if I wanted to make it to college on time. It was a rare moment of clarity, one that might have saved me a great deal of trouble had it arrived even slightly earlier.
Unfortunately, by the time I checked the clock, that possibility had already slipped away. It was morning. Not early morning, not barely sunrise fully, undeniably morning. And with that realization came the understanding that I had just completed my sixth consecutive all-nighter. Sleep was no longer a necessity; it had become an abstract concept, something distant and almost theoretical.
Despite this, I still managed to drag my body to college, submit the assignments, and complete the final step required to secure my long-awaited break. The sense of accomplishment was real, but it was dulled by the overwhelming exhaustion that weighed down every movement. From there, I headed directly to the airport, because for reasons that made perfect sense at the time, returning home immediately was more important than resting. Even in that state, I continued watching anime during the journey, as if determined to push my brain just a little further past its limits. By the time I boarded the plane and settled into my seat, however, even I had to admit defeat. I turned off my phone, leaned back, and prepared to finally surrender to sleep, welcoming the silence and stillness that came with it.
And then everything went wrong.
The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the calm, followed by a voice that cut through the cabin with chilling clarity. "The plane has been hijacked." In any normal situation, this would have triggered fear, panic, or at the very least, a strong desire to remain seated and avoid doing anything reckless. But my brain, already compromised by six days without sleep and an unhealthy consumption of fictional heroics, did not respond in a normal way. Instead, something irrational, impulsive, and dangerously confident took over a distorted sense of protagonism that blurred the line between reality and narrative convenience.
Before I could question it, I was already moving.
My hand reached beneath the seat and grabbed a parachute, an assumption made with absolute confidence and zero verification. Acting on instinct rather than logic, I shoved past one of the terrorists who, to his credit, was entirely unprepared for someone to behave this stupidly rushed toward the emergency exit, and forced it open in a moment of adrenaline-fueled determination.
Chaos erupted behind me as passengers screamed and voices overlapped in confusion, but I barely registered any of it. In that moment, I was operating under a single, flawed belief: that I was the protagonist, and protagonists survive.
So, naturally, I turned back, raised my hand, and showed them the middle finger, declaring with misplaced triumph, "You can't catch the protagonist! Hahahaha!"
And then I jumped.
For a brief, fleeting instant, there was silence of pure weightless which was almost peaceful. It lasted just long enough for my mind to begin catching up with my actions, for the adrenaline to falter, and for reality to reassert itself with cruel precision. Then gravity took over, and the fall began in earnest, the rush of wind intensifying as the ground drew closer with terrifying speed. It was in that moment, suspended between realization and impact, that I attempted to activate the parachute I had so confidently taken.
Nothing happened.
There was a pause not in my fall, but in my thoughts as a single, devastating realization formed with perfect clarity. Commercial airplanes do not carry parachutes for passengers. They carry life vests, designed for water landings, not mid-air escapes. The object in my hands was never meant to save me in this situation, and the assumption I had relied on so completely was fundamentally, irreversibly wrong.
"…Oh."
The ground is very close now.
Close enough to see details.
Close enough to understand exactly how badly I have messed up.
And as the final seconds tick away, there is only one conclusion left to acknowledge.
Yeah.
I really should have just gone to sleep.