I come here when the silence in my apartment grows too loud—when I need something bigger than four walls to remind me I still exist. The night is cold, the air sharp against my skin, and the dim streetlamps cast a weak glow over the water. I sit on the bench overlooking the river, stretching out my sore legs.

It’s late, but I don’t feel like going home.

Today was exhausting. The kind of day that lingers long after the classroom empties, pressing down on my chest even now.

The students barely listened. They whispered, giggled, passed notes while I stood at the front of the room pretending it didn’t bother me. I should be used to it. Shouldn’t take it personally. But when I caught one of them rolling their eyes as I spoke, something in me cracked.

“Am I that useless?”

I press my fingers against my temples, closing my eyes for a moment.

It’s not just today.

Every morning, I wake up and wonder if I’m making a difference. If my students actually learn anything from me. If I even belong here.

Teaching was never the dream.

It was the practical choice. A stable job, a safe future. But now, at 27, standing in front of students who barely acknowledge me, I wonder if I made a mistake.

I glance at my reflection in the dark water below.

I don’t look like someone with his life together.

A teacher with no real accomplishments. No close friends. No relationship. No big successes. Just a man who wakes up, goes to work, comes home, and does it all over again.

The thought settles heavy in my chest.

I want more. More than this quiet routine, more than a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. But I don’t know how to get there.

And worse—I don’t know if I ever will.

It’s stupid, but sometimes writing helps. Not that anyone will ever read this.

I click my pen open and let the words come slowly.

“I don’t know if this is the life I want.

I don’t know if I’m enough.

I don’t know if I will ever feel like I belong.”

I stare at the words for a long time, my fingers tightening around the pen.

I hate how honest they are.

I press my lips together and scribble a line through them, as if that will erase the thoughts from my mind.

Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Or maybe I’ll just keep lying to myself.

I lean back, staring at the ink-stained page.

Then—

A sound.

Faint at first.

I glance up, my body tensing.

At this hour, the park is usually empty. But now, there’s something—a shuffle, a sharp intake of breath, the crackle of dry leaves.

I grip my notebook tighter, scanning the darkness.

Then I see him.

A figure, stumbling down the narrow path toward the river.

At first, he’s just a shadow moving beneath the flickering streetlamp. But as he steps closer, the light catches him, and my stomach twists.

His white shirt is soaked in something dark.

Blood.

I freeze.

His movements are slow, unsteady, as if his body is moments from giving out. His hair falls over his face, but I can see the shape of his mouth, slightly parted, and his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Then his head lifts, and our eyes meet.

Empty.

That’s the only way I can describe them. His eyes are hollow, void of anything except exhaustion and something else—something darker.

He takes another step forward. Then another.

I should run. I should call for help. I should do anything but sit here, watching as this man, this stranger, stares at me like I’m the last thing left in this world.

Then, his lips part. His voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Kill me.”

I can’t breathe.

He takes one more step toward me—then his body gives out.

The last thing I see before he collapses is the slow descent of his eyelids, like he’s welcoming the darkness.