The ceiling fan hummed a tired rhythm, slicing through the stillness of the room like it was too lazy to care. Krishna lay on his bed, one arm draped over his eyes, phone resting on his chest. The screen had gone dark. He didn't unlock it again.
A message from his friend floated somewhere in the back of his mind — "Bro, TCS is hiring freshers again. I'll send you the link."
He'd replied, "Yeah, send it. I'll apply later."
That was, what, two days ago? He hadn't.
His eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. Half-folded clothes, the guitar leaning against the wall like it had given up too. He used to play it every night. Nothing fancy — a few songs, off-tune maybe, but it used to mean something. These days, even thinking about playing felt exhausting.
"Potential," he muttered. The word sounded cheap in his mouth.
People had been throwing that word at him his whole life — teachers, cousins, even random relatives at weddings. 'You've got so much potential, Krishna.'
He used to smile, nod, even believe them a little. But after a while, it started to feel like a curse.
"They weren't wrong," he said quietly, rubbing his face. "But they never told me what the hell I was supposed to do with it."
He let out a low, bitter laugh. "Just said it and left. Like I was supposed to figure it out on my own."
He stared at the mirror across the room. A faint crack ran through the glass, right across his reflection's face. His hair was messy, eyes dull, circles dark enough to look bruised. He leaned closer.
"Wow," he said, voice soft and mocking. "Look at you. What a waste of space. Whole world out there trying, and you… just breathing, pretending it matters."
He smirked. "Maybe you should just end yourself. Save everyone the trouble."
The silence after that felt too long.
Then he sighed. "Yeah, right. That'd just make Mom cry."
He stood up, patting his pockets for his wallet and keys. The rain outside had started — light, patient, like it had nowhere else to be. He didn't mind. Rain didn't judge.
He pulled on his jacket and stepped out. One roommate had gone home; the other two were working late. The apartment was still, almost peaceful.
"Guess it's just me," he muttered, locking the door.
The stairwell smelled like dust and wet concrete. The streetlight flickered at the gate, half-dead but still trying.
By the time he reached the road, the drizzle had turned steady. He didn't bother with his umbrella. The cold drops hit his skin and for once, he didn't mind the chill. It was… grounding.
He walked slowly, hands stuffed in pockets. The city lights reflected off puddles, warping everything. He felt small — like he didn't belong in the picture anymore.
"Maybe I'll apply this time," he said under his breath. "Get a job, fix my shit. Act like I'm okay."
He snorted. "Yeah, sure."
A stray cat was huddled under a scooter. He crouched a little, smiling faintly. "At least you're surviving, huh?" The cat blinked at him and looked away. Fair.
The convenience store was mostly empty. The old shopkeeper barely looked up.
"Late night again?"
"Yeah," Krishna said. "Couldn't sleep."
"The usual?"
"Yeah."
He paid, stepped outside again, and lit a cigarette. The lighter took a few clicks before catching. A small flame fought the wind and won, barely. He took a slow drag, the smoke harsh on his throat.
He hated smoking. Always had. But for those few minutes, when the world shrank to a small flame and his own breath, it felt like he existed.
The rain had softened now — quiet, almost like it was listening.
"You know," he said to no one, "maybe this is what peace feels like. Just… nothing."
He thought of his friends — the late-night calls, dumb jokes, their constant belief that he'd "get it together someday." He wasn't sure he deserved that kind of faith. He wasn't a bad friend, but he wasn't a good one either. He cared, but never enough to show it.
He took another drag, smoke curling up and vanishing into the rain.
"Effort changes fate," he whispered. "That's what everyone says." He paused. "But what if it doesn't? What if some people just… don't get there?"
His thoughts wandered — to job links unopened, to projects half-done, to nights like this where he promised himself he'd try tomorrow.
"Man," he said, voice low, almost embarrassed, "if I'd just pushed a little harder... maybe I wouldn't be here like this."
A soft, lopsided smile crossed his face. "Or maybe I would. Guess I'll never know."
The cigarette was nearly done now, the filter wet. He flicked it away and watched it sizzle in a puddle.
"Bittersweet," he murmured. "Yeah. That's a good word for it."
He looked up at the sky again. "Life's full of 'maybe next times' until you run out of next times."
He stayed there a while — just standing in the rain, breathing, eyes half-closed. The world felt quiet. Kind, almost.
Then came a low rumble of thunder somewhere far away.
He took a step forward, his shoe splashing lightly in the puddle.
For a second — just one second — he felt like the world had paused. Like the rain, the lights, everything had stopped to watch him.
He smiled faintly, and then—
Nothing.
Just the sound of the rain.