What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of purpose? Then what does it mean to be human? These questions hauely— not like ghosts, but more like salesmen trying to peddle their wares, relentless and annoying, always knog at the edges of my thoughts. Socrates preached the virtue of self-refle. But what if the mirror only shows emptiness? What if the examined life is just as hollow as a rotted log? Its surface smooth and unbroke crumbling uhe slightest pressure.

  A life without purpose is like a coffee cup filled with shit. You still call it coffee, but everyone knows it’s shit. Nobody wants it.

  And no… I am not a philosopher, nor am I trying to bee one. I still use Google a to get some answers. Ohing we may have in on? Unemployment. That, and time. So much time. We have so much time doing nothing, and it is our brain with aential crisis virus. That makes us ask, “Why are we here? What’s the purpose of life?” Dumb questions, really, but they still sti my mind like gum otom of a shoe. And I have no answer for them.

  At least real philoset paid to be fused. I do it for free, while they bee famous afterward. I am still just… unemployed. Unwanted. Unappreciated. The three U’s of moderence, which I don't think I o be proud of. My voice echoes ftly against the bare walls of my room when I say this out loud, as though even the air doesn’t care enough to carry the sound.

  Yeah... I wonder what my father would think about me—a failed son. Would he still smile and cheer me up like he once did? I recall his deep, warm ughter, like sunlight filtering through autumn leaves; but now, all I hear is silence.

  Maybe this is a sign. I o do something. Anything. Not only just thinking.

  Just like that, m es. The arm rings with a harsh, jarring beep, slig through the quiet. It’s faintly muffled by the pillow pressed over my ear, but it won’t stop. My body feels stiff, like rusted hinges creaking urain. Like a robot that cks maintenance. My bedsheet smells sour, faintly remi of damp earth and sersuadio wake up and do something about it.

  So, I do. I ge into a new sheet, its crisp fabric a small relief against my skin, and toss the old oo the undry basket. The act lifts my mood slightly, as if the room itself breathes easier for a moment, even though it still reeks entirely of me. Then what now? I don’t have anything to do. Do something leisurely? Heck, I don’t have a TV or i access, so YouTube aflix are out of the question. And besides, I don’t want to go outside. It’s cold as hell, with the wind already whispering through a cracked window. And I don’t want to leave unless I really have to.

  I lie back down on my now -smelling bed, staring at the walls and ceiling. They’re cracked iiny fissures spiderwebbing outward like veiy. Just like my life. Or at least, that’s what I feel. This emptiness isn’t just about the room, but something different... like a shadow that slowly eats me alive. An endless hole with nothing to fill it. The hum of the refrigerator downstairs punctuates the sileeady and meical, almost mog.

  Maybe I should eat something. Maybe I should get up. Maybe I should stop thinking in circles and actually do something for once.

  ...

  Yeah. Or maybe I should just rot here. That sounded easier.

  I am still lost in that thought when someone knoy door. The knoes again—and again, and again. Each thud reverberates through the thin wood, making the doorframe tremble slightly. Dust drifts down from the ceiling like snow. Catg the dim light filtering through the blinds. And I don’t move, because somehow, I already know who is behind it…

  "Ryan… Are you there?" The voice from outside calls my ’s hesitant. Tinged with , cutting through the stale air like a knife.

  Of course, I am. You think I’m at some nightclub blowing my life savings? Oh wait… I don’t have any. However, I don’t say it out loud.

  I answer casually, “Yeah, Wait a minute please…”

  I grab a better shirt and pants from the drawer while tossing some trash aside. I feel like getting in an involuntary workout. Not a bad thing, right? But for some reason, it makes me feel old because my joints creak every time I move, like floorboards settling in an old house. Does that mean I should sign up fym membership?

  After half-assed ing and throwing on clothes, I open the door. The early m light casts a weak glow on the peeling paint of the hallway, and the door creaks, its hinges groaning as if they haven’t been oiled in years. There, ohreshold, stands my old friend Jasoraveled quite far to e here. A rare occurrence, a bit of a surprise this early in the m. The chill outside lio him faintly; he smells like cold air mixed with leather from his jacket.

  "What’s the matter?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe. My voice is ft, tired.

  Jason wrinkles his nose. "Christ, Ryan. It reeks like a dumpster in here." He steps inside, and the stale odor of old pizza and musty air hits him immediately. He eyes the scattered pizza boxes as if they were crime se evidence.

  "How long has it been?" he asks in a noisy, desding tone, giving me a strange look as his shoes squeak faintly against the scuffed linoleum floor.

  "Since what? My st shower? A job interviews?" I snap, ahe words feel sharp in my throat—jagged and defensive.

  "So, you’ve just been rotting in this shithole?" he asks again, his words stinging more than I care to admit.

  It isn’t wrong, though. It is true for at least a week, I think? I don’t go anywhere except when I o buy groceries. Even then, I avoid people, keeping my head down as I shuffle through aisles lit thtly by fluorest lights.

  “Is that a problem?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Then he looks at me, his gaze sharpening like a hawk log onto prey. I recall the st time he looked at me that way—I owed him 200. Ah… I still haven’t paid him back.

  So, is he here to ask for some money? Let’s find out.

  “Did you bother io collect the 200 I borrowed st time?” I ask, my voice ced with sarcasm and resignation. My words blending with the soft hum of the refrigerator in the background.

  This time he seems fused and says, "That's ohing; there's something else I want to talk about. You got a minute?"

  Since I have nothing to do and no reason to refuse, I wave him in. He drags a chair from the desk, its legs screeg against the floor like nails on a chalkboard, and sits. I plop down on the edge of the bed fag him, the mattress sagging under my weight.

  “Have you got a new job?” He asks.

  I shrugged. “You guess.”

  I shrug. "You guess."

  "So… still nothing?"

  As usual, his words are straight to the point. But then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Aor at NexusPage needs writers. For a new serialization.”

  The words hang in the air. Heavy aing offer. A real ce. But…

  “No, thanks, Jason. I’m doh writing for now. Just… tired.”

  His jaw ss. He stares at me like I've sed faces with his ex-girlfriend.

  “Really? Are you the same Ryan I know?” He looks fbbergasted, his brow furrowed deeply enough to cast shadows across his face. His rea is priceless. It was the first time I’ve seen him genuinely surprised in ages.

  “I am. Do you think I am doppelg?nger?” I ask, jokingly. F a smirk into my face.

  He scratches his . The sound of stubble rasping against his nails fills the silehen he asks, “Is this Ryan, the same person who has been pursuing his dream of being a writer for almost 10 years? The one who called it his ‘life’s purpose’ and suddenly now… lost i?”

  Typical of an old friend—digging up graves I’d buried. If only memory had a delete key. Wouldn’t that make our lives easier?

  “Fet it,” I say. “I already have.”

  He presses a palm to my forehead. “Are you sick? Or… has something cracked in there?”

  Does he think I’m crazy? Well… he isirely wrong if he does. Maybe I’m already at that stage. The same stage as Socrates, Aristotle and Diogehe same stage as Socrates, Aristotle, and Diogehe stage of realization. Although in my case, it feels like a low-budget epiphany, still.

  “I just realized that I 't stay in the co of my dreams forever. Reality makes me resider my life's purpose.”

  He is stunned. “You’ve really ged since our st meeting. Did something happen?” His face, illuminated in patches by the weak light, remains full of disbelief.

  I remember it. The time when someone believed iellihat I could reach the highest stars. But unfortunately, this world isn’t about me. Everything ge. And ge is abrupt. Humans hate that. We’d rather chew gss than admit life’s a roulette wheel.

  “I told you,” I say. “You’ll never uand.”

  He tilts his head. “Normal people don’t use excuses like that.”

  Good point. I never feel like one. A bizarre human, with a bizarre mind.

  “Maybe I’m not,” I say.

  He shakes his head slightly before asking, “Have you thought about it carefully? Throwing everything away? Will that solve the problem?”

  Feeling that he is quite worried, I say, “Don’t worry. I’ve thought about it—deeply.”

  “Fine.” He sighs, the sound of a maiating with a brick wall. “Take the card, for old times’ sake.” Then he pulls out his wallet, its leather creaking like a rusty hinge. “Call him if you wake up tomorrow feeling human again.”

  But it seems he isn’t just givihe business card; he gives me something else…

  “This is for your phone. 250—enough for three months. Three months of… whatever this is.” He hands me the cash, the bills crisp and cool in my hand.

  I stare at him, fused. Why is he handing me money all of a sudden? I haven’t even paid the st I owed him yet. Then why does he give me more money now? It doesn’t make se all. Or does he think I’m just a charity case?

  “I’m not your charity case, Jason,” I say sharply. Irritation biting at my words.

  He flinches but quickly hardens his expression. “Call it a Christmas gift. You remember Christmas, don’t you?”

  I don’t. That expins why the weather is so cold now. Even so, I don’t want to accept that kind of money. Yes, I am unemployed. But not a beggar. That’s a different thing. I still have pride in myself.

  “Nah, you keep it,” I say, pushing away both the cash and the business card in his hand.

  His face darkens with anger. Did I say something wrong? Am I doing something wrong? Before I figure it out, he grabs my hand forcefully, shoving the money and card into my palm.

  “Just take it,” he snaps. “I’m nuing with you, so don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  I felt it. A pity. In his eyes. In the way he talks. I don't like it. I hate it. It makes me feel small. And Pathetic.

  So, I pull my hand away and toss all the money and the business card onto the floor. They scatter everywhere, like useless paper and pstio different than trash.

  “I don’t need your pity. You give that moo someone else,” I say, looking into his narrowed eyes. His lips tightening. And a face that looks sad.

  Without another word, he bends down and starts pig up the scattered items. I hear the soft rustle of paper and the faint k of small objects as he arrahem on my desk. Slowly. Deliberately. He pces each item in its spot. And the sileween us. It felt heavier now. Pressing down on my chest like a stone sb. Hard to breathe.

  Theurns to look at me. His gaze steady, almost pierg. “I may have a det job and a stable life now, but that doesn’t mean I’ve fotten our promise—to Ellen, and to your father.”

  Stop... Don’t remind me... Please, Jason...

  “So, one day we go to their graves ahem, we achieved our dream. Our promise. Ellen believed in you, Ryan. Evehings got tough, she opped, and your father... He finally be proud after all the struggles you went through.”

  I know... You don’t o tell me... I... I... Remember it...

  His voice softens, almost pleading. “I hope that happens sooner. Because I believe in you too, my friend. Just like Ellen and your father did. Don’t throw that away.” His geos through the still air.

  And then he leaves. Vanishes. Really—like a ghost who’s e only to stir up old wounds and leave me drowning in unwanted memories again. Maybe... maybe this is just a dream. A nightmare dredged up from the past. Yet, refusing to let me go. Tell me it’s just a dream. Yeah, it’s just a dream...

  I y eyes, lying ba the bed. Everything feels heavy. My head. My body. Even my breath. Am I drowning? Falling? I don’t know anymore. Just darkness. Slowly swallowing me whole. ing me. Giving me peace at st.

  Hours pass—or maybe minutes. I don’t know. What’s the difference, really? Time has lost all meaning. My body feels weak, every muscle sck, unresponsive. My throat burns raw, dry from hours of shallow breathing. I open my eyes. Same ceiling. Same emptiness. Alone in this suffog stillness. The faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs is the only sound breaking the silence.

  I reay phos s flickers to life, dim and grainy. Battery almost dead. 07:00 PM. Half a day, gohat expins why my body feels drained, why my throat burns. I need food. Water. Even though I’m not hungry. Not thirsty. Sihis is mortal curse—one I couldn't escape.

  When I sit up, I see it. The 250 bill. The business cards. Sitting on my desk, stark against the worn wood. As much as I want this to be a dream, reality always hits harder. And sihe money’s there… I guess I have to use it, right? Even though I refused it before because of my pride. Starving won’t prove anything.

  And it’s not like I have to return it. Jason forced it on me first.

  The only thi in my kit is instant noodles. Not enough. So that’s it, then. I ge into a sweater, trousers, a coat. Stepped outside. Because there’s nothio do in my apartment. Nothing but t the cracks in the walls. The fabriy coat smells faintly of dust, like it hasn’t been washed in weeks.

  Maybe the cold air would clear my head. Maybe not. Who knows?

  I leave my rundown, cheap apartment behind—only to be greeted by an unusual crowd. Too unusual. People look… cheerful. A couple ughs nearby, their voices carrying over the hum of traffic, lost in their own world. A family walks together, perfectly in sync, boots g on frost-covered pavement, like something out of a postcard. Did I step onto a different p? Or did everyone just hit their heads at the same time?

  Then I see him. The bearded man in red and white. The legendary Santa Cus, standing near a mppost strung with twinkling lights. Of course. That expins everything. The festive mood, the ughter, the warmth in the air. It’s Christmas. No wohe world feels… unreal. But it doesn’t expin why I ’t feel the same. They ugh and smile like nothing else matters. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe they’re just better at pretending than I am.

  Thinking like this only makes me hungrier. So, I go to the local burger shop. It’s crowded, more than usual. The liretg almost to the door. The smell of greasy fries and grilled meat hangs thi the air. I buy a couple of burgers and a Coke. If there’s ohing I actually appreciate about Christmas, it’s the special dists. A small win in the grand scheme of a miserable life. The burgers feel warm and greasy in my hands as I listen to the low sizzle from the grill.

  After I finish filling my stomach, I step out of the burger shop. But I don’t head home. Not yet. Home only reminds me of things I don’t want to remember. The weight of guilt. The people I’ve let down. Myself included.

  So, I walk through streets filled with warmth, ughter, and the glow of Christmas lights. casting soft halos o pavement. Past the cheerful faces, the ringing bells held by volunteers in red vests. And the gaze of Santa Cus watg over the square like some kind of jolly guardian. Until I find it. A ptouched by all of this. A park, empty and silent. Fotten. Abandoned. Overlooked.

  The gate creaks as I push it open and rust fking off under my fingers. The grass is brittle, ched underfoot, frozen from days of cold weather. The swings sway slightly, nudged by the wind, their s groaning faintly. Like looking into a mirror. A pce that shares my fate.

  There’s a bench beh a rge, shadowed tree. A park mp stands nearby, its bulb flickering faintly, casting a dying glow that barely reaches the ground. A perfect arra.

  I walk over and sit. The wood of the bench feels rough under my palms, splintered from years of . The night wind slips through my clothes, cool against my skin, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and deg leaves. Moonlight washes over me, pale and cold, pooling in patches around me. And for a moment—just a moment—I feel lighter. Like the weight in my chest has eased, if only slightly. This pce really... it suits me. Perfectly.

  I slowly think about what Jason said earlier. He gave me another ce. Do I even have the ce to take it? I don’t think I have such ce.

  Since I realized. That my dream oison. The more I chased it, the more it drained me, bled me dry. Maybe this is just how it is. Some dreams aren’t meant to be reached. Some things are better left behind. But...

  There were people who believed in me. Who never wavered, even whehing crumbled. They held onto that belief until their st breath. And I... I promised them.

  It’s been years since I visited my father’s grave. I’m too ashamed to go there. I always remember where he tio work after his retirement—long hours at a job he hated because I was his failed son. Unemployed and pursuing an impossible dream. Seeing his sweat, his smile when he cheered me on. A debt I could never repay him.

  I still see him bent over the kit table te at night, p over bills with tired eyes. His hands calloused, ink-stained from w overtime shifts long after retirement. The table creaked softly whenever he leaned forward, squinting at the numbers. He’d look up and catch me watg, then grin like nothing mattered except seeing me succeed. “You’ll get there,” he’d say, ruffling my hair. And I’d nod, pretending I believed him.

  Maybe if I didn’t force myself to be a writer, I could’ve given him a more det retirement. He could’ve been more at ease than having to worry about his useless child.

  It’s just that, being a writer was the result of my own promise. That’s why I’m scared every time I think about Ellen. She was the one who always told me that I had a talent for writing. She helped me a lot. Even though I was too stupid to use her help properly. One of her words I ever fet: “Your writing is beautiful. I feel the things you want to express through it. Others might not uand it, but I do. I feel it.”

  But it seems she saw it wrong. I have no talent whatsoever. Like a chasing an impossible dream, fooling no o himself. For that, I slowly threw away my dream. Reality made me realize that indeed, I am a . Because I keep deceiving myself.

  My chest tightens as I think about her smile. As she y there, her body growing weaker each day. The cer eating away at her life like it was nothing. Even then, she enced me. Yeah… In that dition, I still made her worry. Truly pathetic. It was me—the one who cried in front of her.

  My hands tremble, fingers curling into fists. What would she say if she saw me now? Would she still believe in me? Or would she finally see what everyone else does: a failure masquerading as a dreamer?

  Even though I once promised. One day Jason and I would visit her grave together. Where we would fulfil our promise as three of us. Jason with his dream of being a famous wyer. Me, who would be a successful writer. And Ellen, who wao see me and Jason achieve our dreams together. That was her st wish. Her dream. More than anything.

  But I worry that will never happen. While Jason now kind of succeeds with his career as a new wyer, I am the failed ohe living miserable. Probably it would’ve beeer if I were the one who was go least, my father wouldn’t o have a failed son, and Ellen... She probably would’ve had a good life sidering her ability and personality.

  In a better story, I would at all. Just silence where my name should be.