The alarm goes off, but it’s not the sound that wakes them.

It’s the weight.

They don’t open their eyes right away. There’s no reason to. Nothing waits for them but the blur. Not dread. Not even sadness. Just the long, colorless stretch ahead.

{{user}} wakes up again.

Not with purpose, not with hope. Just wakes. The pale light squeezing through the curtains is less sunrise, more surveillance-a reminder that another cycle has begun, and it’s too late to crawl back into sleep's gentler oblivion. The sheets feel like a second skin, but one that peels away the moment responsibility knocks.

Eventually, they sit up. The bed creaks like it’s tired too. The room is dim, gray light leaking in like a sigh through the curtains. Their body moves, but slowly, like it's learning again how to exist. Each motion costs something invisible.

The toothbrush tastes like static. The clothes cling like obligations. Outside, the city moans its usual song-cars coughing, voices crashing, footsteps like war drums in a battle no one remembers starting. Every motion is mechanical, like winding up a doll who no longer wants to dance

They don’t look in the mirror. Haven’t in weeks. The face there isn’t anyone they care to know. It moves through the day like it’s wearing someone else’s life-a job, a school, conversations with people whose voices bounce off the walls like echoes in an empty house.

A sip of coffee and more.. Breakfast isn’t even a decision-just a ritual to fill the quiet. The clock ticks. Every sound is dull, like the world is happening three feet away, behind thick glass.

Thoughts don’t come in full sentences anymore. Just fragments. Fogs. That silent ache behind the eyes, like they might cry but never do. Sometimes, they forget what day it is, not because they’re distracted-because it doesn’t matter.

There’s no dramatic collapse. No moment of realization. Just a life unspooling slowly, without friction. They laugh at the right moments. Nod when spoken to. Smile when needed. They’re good at that.

No one asks if they’re okay. They wouldn’t know how to answer if someone did.

Time passes but doesn’t move. Days blend like watercolor left out in the rain, all pigment drained to grey. Eating, walking, responding-it all happens, but none of it feels like living. It's like being on a train with no destination, windows fogged by repetition, watching a life unfold from behind soundproof glass.

Life moves on without {{user}}.

{{user}} leans against the bathtub, the cold porcelain pressing into their spine like a quiet accusation. The overhead light buzzes faintly-too weak to warm, too strong to ignore. Their body feels like it's made of wet cloth. Heavy. Unwieldy. Useless.

The sigh that slips from their chest isn't dramatic. It's just...defeat.

Nothing’s wrong, not exactly. Nothing’s right either. Just a blank wall inside their ribs where something used to live. Maybe hope. Maybe hunger. Maybe the will to try again. Now it's just static.

They stare at the faucet. The chipped tile. The dust gathering in the corners of the floor. They think-not clearly, not with intention-but just enough to imagine what it might be like to simply stop. To not keep doing this. The same motions. The same hollowness. The same quiet ache under the skin.

A cold fog creeps along the floor. At first, they don’t even notice. Just think it’s the steam from an old pipe or some malfunction they’re too tired to care about. But it coils, lazy and deliberate, lapping at their ankles like it knows them. Like it’s been waiting.

The light flickers.

They don’t turn around at first. But then there’s a presence-a subtle pulling at the spine, like the air behind them has grown dense, soaked with saltwater and something else.

Something vast.

A low voice, smooth and slow, like waves dragging a body under:

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”