He thought this might be it.

  Not because he hadn’t tried. He had. He really had. He’d tried to adapt to this world, this society that seemed to demand compliance while rewarding masks.

  But something inside him refused.

  Every day felt like swallowing glass—watching the same human charades, the same declarations of love wrapped in lies, the same self-important creatures parading their illusions of moral superiority. They called themselves better than beasts, yet clawed at each other like predators in suits.

  He’d seen it all too clearly. The hypocrisy behind every “I love you,” the silent expectations coiled like vipers beneath familial sacrifice. Parents gave everything “selflessly”—then grew bitter when their children didn’t return the favor in full.

  If that wasn’t conditional love, what was?

  No one gave him answers. And when he dared to ask, they scoffed. Called him dramatic. Called him mad. Said he thought too much, felt too deeply, spoke when silence would be easier.

  He understood now. He saw it all too well.

  But he couldn’t fix anything.

  His name didn’t matter. It never had. Not to the family he was born into, not to the people who glanced past him as if he were made of smoke.

  Why was he saying this now?

  Maybe just to cause one final inconvenience—his small act of rebellion before departure.

  He didn’t expect anyone to mourn. He’d been invisible in life; in death, he might at least be noticed… if only as a chore to clean up.

  That was the punchline, wasn’t it? The final joke.

  He looked around his room—dim, quiet. Still. The rope he’d bought earlier hung from the ceiling fan like a makeshift promise. It was thin, rough, and cheaper than he’d imagined. He almost laughed at the absurdity. What if it snapped mid-hanging?

  How humiliating would that be?

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  No. He wouldn’t leave anything to chance.

  He moved methodically, swallowing a handful of blood pressure pills in one gulp—an extra precaution. If the rope failed, the heart wouldn’t. Then came the sleeping pills—five of them, dissolved in lukewarm water.

  Plan A, B, and C. Together, they couldn’t possibly fail him.

  Next came the setup. He tied the rope to the fan, adjusted the knot to the right height, and placed a stick beside the stool. If his neck didn’t snap cleanly, he might be tempted to change his mind. But if the fan spun, it would tighten the noose—tilting the odds in favor of success.

  He whispered, “Done.”

  Everything was ready.

  One final indulgence—he lit a cigarette. Not because he needed it, but because he knew the smell would linger. If his mother found him, perhaps the first thing she’d notice would be the smoke curling toward the ceiling. Maybe she’d scold him one last time.

  But she wouldn’t get the chance.

  He stepped up onto the stool. The noose slipped around his neck like a collar made of silence. His pulse pounded. The pills had begun to kick in—his limbs felt thick, his breath uneven.

  With the stick, he nudged the fan switch.

  And kicked the stool.

  Silence.

  Stillness.

  Was this it?

  There was no pain. No air. No sound.

  It must have worked.

  Yet… thought remained. Consciousness didn’t flicker out.

  Why?

  Was he in a hospital?

  No—impossible. That would be too cruel. Someone saving him now would only seal the failure.

  Everything remained dark. Numb. As if he existed without body, without place.

  Was this death?

  Or was he suspended in something else entirely?

  He tried to move. Nothing responded. Panic stirred beneath the haze of drugs and silence. If he wasn’t dead, why couldn’t he feel his body?

  Then—pain.

  A sharp, biting pressure in his chest.

  He winced in thought, in instinct. Was this what a heart attack felt like?

  He’d planned this so carefully. So why… why was he still here?

  Please, he thought.

  A whisper to the void.

  I never asked for anything. Just grant me this one.

  A bitter chuckle rose inside him. The irony of it all. He had never believed in gods or fate, yet here he was—pleading into darkness, begging an invisible force to let him go.

  Time lost its shape.

  And slowly—unbearably slowly—sensation returned.

  His body. His limbs. His chest screamed in resistance.

  No...

  He’d hanged himself. It was supposed to be clean, final.

  So why was his chest burning? Why did it feel like something inside him was tearing open?

  Why did it feel like... he was still here?

  ---