Our protagonist his name was Nick 26 years old , his life was kinda of monotonous, if it was tv show it would definitely be in black white and silent,Nick learned to measure his life in emails.Not days. Not memories. Emails.
Unread. Replied. Forwarded. Archived.
Each morning, he rose before the sun, buttoned a shirt that still carried the faint chemical smell of dry-cleaning fluid, and stepped into a world of glass walls and reflected faces. The city greeted him with the same indifference he carried inside his chest like always,crowded trains, blinking signals, people moving with purpose but without presence. Everyone seemed to be somewhere. Nick felt like he was only ever passing through.
The office tower stood like a monument to ambition—steel, concrete, and windows that reflected the sky but never seemed to let it inside it self. Nick took his place among rows of identical desks, the quiet hum of computers filling the silence between coworkers who knew each other's job titles but not their stories.atlest that's how it's been to him.
He performed well. Too well, perhaps.
Efficient. Reliable. Invisible,never needing to depend on someone else.
Inside, however, there was something hollow he could never quite name.
Sometimes, in the reflection of the darkened screen, he thought he saw another face beside his own—familiar, softer at the edges, smiling in a way Nick no longer remembered how to do. The image would vanish as quickly as it came, leaving behind only a dull ache in his chest, sometimes it somehow weighed on him,he looked at his reflection of his dull face the most heart breaking things about being born twin is someone die before other and the living one is being always remembered about it when ever they see their reflection.
He never spoke about his twin brother.
There was no ritual of remembrance, no framed photograph on his desk, no stories shared over coffee. The world had moved on, and Nick had followed, but something essential had been left behind. It felt like living with one lung—breathing, functioning, surviving, but never quite whole.
He told himself the emptiness was just fatigue.
Just the weight of deadlines.
Just adulthood.
But in quieter moments—standing at crosswalks, staring into crowded platforms, watching children tug at their parents' hands—he felt it: a sense of missing someone whose absence had shaped the very space inside him.
That evening, the city was restless. Construction crews packed up for the day near the sidewalk outside Nick's office building, orange cones glowing beneath the streetlights. He loosened his tie and stepped into the flow of pedestrians, already thinking about the bland dinner waiting for him in his small, carefully organized apartment.
Then he heard the scream.
A sharp, high sound that cut through traffic noise and tired conversations. Nick turned.
A steel beam—long, heavy, unsteady—had slipped from its rigging above the sidewalk. Workers shouted warnings too late. Below, a small child stood frozen, eyes wide, caught between confusion and terror.
It felt like Time itself fractured.
The world slowed into unbearable clarity—the beam tipping, the child's small hands clutching a toy, the mother's voice breaking into panic.
Nick moved without thinking.why why why did I move he asked himself, asking he question he couldn't answer.
As he ran, a memory surged up from somewhere deep and buried: his brother, small and fearless, darting into the street after a rolling ball; Nick's own hands grabbing him back at the last second; the way his heart had pounded afterward, furious and grateful all at once.
For a fleeting instant, the child in front of him became his brother.
The same fragile stillness.
The same wide, trusting eyes.
Nick reached the child and shoved them forward with all the strength his body could summon. The child stumbled into safety, tumbling onto the pavement as arms closed around them.
The beam fell.
There was no pain at first—only a thunderous impact, a sudden weight, and then an eerie lightness, as though the world had exhaled him.
In his final heartbeat, Nick felt something he had not felt in years.
Not the emptiness.
Not the ache.
But a quiet, aching warmth—like the presence of someone standing just beside him.
And for the first time since his brother was gone, Nick did not feel like alone. He died