Siddharth's life had always been planned before he even knew what planning meant. His father, a man of quiet determination, had whispered into the world the destiny he envisioned for his son: become a doctor, a savior of lives, a man of respect. Siddharth had grown up walking the path laid before him, steady in his grades, diligent enough to keep his parents proud. Eighty, sometimes ninety percent — nothing extraordinary, but enough to signal promise.
Then came 2019. The epidemic changed everything. Schools closed. Streets emptied. Days stretched endlessly, and the world outside seemed to disappear. Siddharth was in the eighth grade, restless, confused, and suddenly free from the small rules that had governed his life. It was then his father bought him a laptop — a tool meant to guide him further into the disciplined future that awaited.
But Siddharth found another world. One of colors, voices, and endless possibilities. He discovered anime, manhwa, and audiobooks, stories where ordinary people became extraordinary through chance, courage, or power systems beyond imagination. At first, it was curiosity. Then fascination. And soon, addiction. Hours blurred. Days disappeared. The line between reality and fantasy began to fade.
By class ten, he still managed his grades — barely. But as he entered eleventh grade, the stage of youthful joy and fleeting freedom, Siddharth drowned deeper. Eighteen hours a day vanished into fictional worlds. When his friends were building the foundations of their futures, Siddharth was learning heroics and powers from screens, imagining himself as someone extraordinary, someone beyond the limits of reality.
The results of his twelfth-grade exams arrived like a cold slap. Sixty-two percent. His worst year yet. Deep inside, he knew it was his own doing, but he refused to confront it. Facing the truth meant confronting the part of himself he feared most — the part that had let him slip so far, the part that had lied to everyone, including his own heart.
And yet, in his father's eyes, there was still hope. Hope — a light Siddharth both cherished and feared. His father's unwavering belief in him was beautiful and cruel at the same time. It reminded him of all he had lost, all he had wasted. Even after the disastrous result, his father didn't give up. He sent Siddharth to Kathmandu, a city surrounded by mountains and nature's quiet, with the promise of a fresh start. "Start again," his father said. "I believe in you."
But Siddharth didn't start again. Not truly. Nine months passed, each day a repetition of the last. He told his father he was studying, but the truth was far darker. He spent his hours lost in manhwa, anime, and audiobooks. He dived into fantasies of system-protagonists, worlds where someone ordinary awakens extraordinary abilities, or suddenly becomes rich, or knows the universe itself. And when those weren't enough, he sought other distractions, darker and fleeting, to quiet the noise inside. Kathmandu became both a cage and a refuge — a place where he could hide from the reality he feared, from the expectations he couldn't meet, and from himself.
Every day, Siddharth felt the weight of guilt and shame. Every night, he imagined the consequences of failure — again — and his heart trembled at the thought of looking into his father's hopeful eyes and seeing disappointment reflected back. He wanted to try. Deep down, a spark of desire flickered within him, a small voice whispering that he could rise. But fear paralyzed him. What if he drowned again? What if he failed once more and destroyed himself completely in the gaze of the one person who never stopped believing in him?
It was in these quiet, lonely moments that Siddharth first called himself Nameless. Not because he lacked identity, but because it felt like he was becoming untethered from the world, blending into its silence. Nameless was someone who could hide, who could exist without being seen, who could sink into his surroundings and escape judgment — both from others and himself. Being Nameless didn't require courage or success. It required acceptance — acceptance of failure, of hiding, of dreaming in worlds that didn't exist.
He began to write in the quiet, hidden pages of his mind, confessing truths he couldn't speak aloud. I know I don't know anything. Eighteen years of study, and still, I remember nothing. I deceive myself more than anyone else. I tell everyone I am trying my best, but I know even one percent of it were true, my life would be different. Yet I don't do it. I live in fantasies — systems, powers, wealth, and infinite knowledge. And deep down, I know it's impossible.
Siddharth's days in Kathmandu continued like this, a fragile loop of fear and escapism. And yet, amidst the silence, a strange clarity began to emerge. Nameless was not just a mask or a refuge. It was the beginning of understanding himself in ways he had never dared. Maybe being Nameless wasn't surrendering. Maybe it was the first step toward seeing life — and himself — without illusions, without pretense.
For now, Siddharth remained Nameless. Lost. Afraid. Paralyzed. But a seed had been planted, small and almost imperceptible: the awareness that life could continue, that he could choose a step — any step — even if it was terrifying.
---