I can’t remember the last time I watched the sunset from anywhere but behind glass. Usually, if I see it at all, it’s through the tall windows of my office building, the sky tinted orange behind rows of concrete and steel. Today, though, I’m so late leaving work that the sun’s long gone—replaced by the neon glow of the city and a whisper of cold that settles into my bones.

I step out onto the sidewalk, exhaustion trailing me like a heavy cloak. My legs feel sluggish, my back aching from hours hunched over a desk. The street is nearly empty this time of night, with only the rare hiss of a passing car and the distant rumble of a bus. A security guard at the front door waves me off, our nightly ritual, and I offer a weak nod in return. We’ve seen each other enough to know each other’s patterns—he probably recognizes the defeated stoop of my shoulders by now.

As I walk, my thoughts drift in a tired loop. I recall a conversation I once had with a childhood friend about how, by the time we reached adulthood, we’d conquer the world. We’d do something monumental—start a company, invent something amazing, maybe become famous. We were nine or ten, I think, sprinting through the neighborhood on a warm afternoon, convinced the universe was ours for the taking.

“We were so bold then,” I mutter under my breath. A gust of wind lashes my face, as if mocking the memory. If my younger self could see me now—dragging myself home at midnight, eyes bleary, soul drained—what would he think?

Remembering Hope

The further I walk, the more my mind wanders. I see snapshots of my life in quick flashes, like I’m skipping through channels on a TV. There’s high school, where I studied as if the future depended on perfect grades. Back then, my friends and I believed in endless potential. We’d pile into someone’s cramped living room, papers spread everywhere, devouring pizza while we hammered through assignments. We’d talk about college, about changing the world one day. We promised we wouldn’t let each other down.

Then came university, a whirlwind of new faces, old friendships stretching thin, and mounting responsibilities. Some of us worked part-time jobs, others juggled internships. We still tried to meet—coffee shops, late-night diners—but each year, it got harder to coordinate. One friend had early labs, another had a night shift, another was just so exhausted they slept through weekends. We pretended we’d get back to the fun days eventually, but deep down, I think we all sensed the drift.

Graduation arrived with fanfare, only to hand me a new set of worries. Rent. Bills. Food. Those were the basics, but then there was the question of purpose. I landed an office job—IT support, though my official title tried to make it sound more glamorous. It paid enough to live on, so I counted it as a win… at first. Then the grind took hold. Every day blurred into the next: Wake up early, commute, stare at screens, field calls, fix problems, go home too late, collapse, repeat.

Is this really all there is? The question echoes in my head constantly. It’s a question I never dare voice, because what if the answer is simply yes?

The Late-Night Walk

I reach a crosswalk, waiting for the signal to flash green. The reflection in the darkened window beside me catches my eye. A gaunt face, hair disheveled, eyes ringed with fatigue. I almost don’t recognize it as my own. I suddenly remember how my father—back when I was a kid—used to say I had eyes that sparkled with curiosity. Where did that sparkle go?

The light changes, and I shuffle across the intersection, the echo of my footsteps louder than it should be. My watch reads well past midnight, but I can’t even muster surprise. This is normal now. I pass a couple of convenience stores, their fluorescent signs harsh in the dark, and wonder if I should buy something to eat. But my stomach is too churned up from stress, so I keep walking.

The train station comes into view, its neon sign flickering ominously. I slip inside, tapping my transit card at the turnstile. It beeps with practiced indifference, and I descend the concrete steps to the underground platform. I see the usual late-night suspects: shift workers dragging themselves home, a few college students chattering quietly, and solitary figures huddled in corners, eyes glued to their phones.

I pick a spot near a pillar, letting my bag drop to the ground. There’s a faint draft from the tunnel, ruffling the edges of my jacket. I can’t help but think about how life seemed so much bigger once. It’s like everything narrowed down, and now I’m stuck on a single-track path, no detours allowed.

A Glimpse of Fate

A dull roar signals the arrival of the train. Headlights pierce the darkness of the tunnel, and it screeches to a stop with a metallic whine. The doors slide open, and I shuffle in along with a handful of strangers. The overhead lights inside the car flicker erratically, as if they too are tired beyond measure.

I pick a seat by the window and drop my head against the glass. The hum of the AC overhead feels like a lullaby. I glance around. A young woman leans against a pole, her eyes half-closed, one earbud dangling. A couple in the corner whispers to each other, the man’s arm draped protectively around the woman’s shoulder. For a moment, I envy them—the simple comfort of having someone else to lean on.

The doors close, the train jerks into motion, and I feel the vibration through my seat. A thick wave of exhaustion washes over me. My eyelids droop, and I consider letting the gentle rocking lull me to sleep. Part of me hesitates—I don’t want to miss my stop. But I’m so drained, it’s a battle just to stay upright.

Just a short rest, I tell myself, adjusting my head against the window. The city lights zip by in the darkness outside, blurred by the speed. Another day, another endless cycle. I’ve asked myself a thousand times if there’s more to life than this. The answer always hides, tucked away behind responsibilities and timecards.

My mind drifts to earlier tonight: a conversation with a co-worker about a project deadline. I think about the day before that, burying my nose in code, wrestling with error logs. I can’t recall a single joyous moment. Just a constant stream of tasks.

A Strange Flicker

A faint beep overhead startles me awake. I open my eyes to see the overhead lights flicker again. For a split second, the entire carriage seems to dip into darkness. A static crackle rattles through the speakers. My heart gives a small jolt. The young woman across the aisle tugs her earbud free, looking around uncertainly. The couple in the corner glances up.

Then the lights steady. A scratchy announcement tries to break through the speaker, but it fizzles out in a burst of static. The woman shrugs and settles back in her seat. The tension slips away just as quickly as it rose, and the train glides into the next tunnel.

My eyelids grow heavy again. The day’s fatigue is too deep, too overwhelming to resist. I lean my head back, ignoring the distant worry that something might be off with the train. Right now, I can’t imagine anything but the sweet release of sleep.

Slipping Under

As the train rattles on, I feel my consciousness fade in and out. I catch fragments of memory—summer afternoons as a kid, riding my bike under a blazing sun; laughter echoing in a friend’s garage where we once jammed on guitars; the smell of coffee at the campus library where I once pulled all-nighters, fueled by a sense of purpose. These fragments are fleeting, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the lurch of the train’s movements.

Somewhere in the haze, a dull thump resonates from the far end of the carriage, followed by a muffled exclamation. I blink, trying to stay awake, but everything feels so distant, like I’m watching a scene through fogged glass. My head lolls forward, and I snap it back up. My body doesn’t want to obey, pinned down by exhaustion heavier than any office workload I’ve known.

There’s another flicker of the lights, longer this time. The train lurches—once, twice—and a spark of alarm attempts to crawl up my spine. Yet I’m too far gone to process it. My breathing slows, and my heartbeat drips into a sluggish rhythm. It’s like sinking into quicksand: the more I try to pull myself up, the deeper I get pulled under.

The Last Thought

In the final moments of consciousness, I sense a strange hush over the carriage. No hum of conversation, no rustle of newspapers. The flickering lights reveal shifting shadows. A faint beep, then a louder crack—a sound that might be metal twisting, or maybe it’s just my imagination. There’s a blurred shout somewhere, but it doesn’t fully register.

I think of that nine-year-old version of me again, starry-eyed and fearless. I can almost see him, grinning in the summer sun, telling me not to give up on big dreams. What happened to you? he’d ask. What happened to us?

And then everything goes black.

I’m swallowed by an all-encompassing weariness, drifting into a sleep deeper than any I’ve known. There’s no sense of the crash, no jolt of terror—just a slow departure into oblivion, still believing I’ll wake at my stop, shuffle home, and do it all over again tomorrow.

But fate has other plans. Tomorrow will come, yes—but not the tomorrow I expect. Instead, it will be the beginning of a new life, one I can’t yet imagine, in a world far beyond the lonely neon glow of this city. For now, I slip away, my last coherent thought echoing with the regrets of a life half-lived.

Yet somewhere, just beyond the edge of darkness, another story waits to begin.