They call me Rhys.
At thirteen I knew — I wouldn’t get what I needed. Second-born, second in worth. In our poor family, some things could have been ours. But somehow, they only reached my brother.
I think too much. No friends. My personality? Too odd. I mean... who wants to be around someone like me?
Now I'm thirty. My name is tied to debts I didn’t choose. Between thirteen and twenty-three, everything I predicted came true. Every single time. Eventually, I learned to hate that gift.
The migraines never ease. Pills don’t touch the pain. And the question never stops humming: What does tomorrow even look like?
A voice cuts into my thoughts, cold and distant. “Where’s that guy again? Just sitting there while we keep paying him for nothing.”
But no one’s around me. I sit in this room, trying to claw myself out of the debt left behind when my father passed. My brother? Long gone to another country, shouting promises that barely surfaced beyond rare transfers.
I can calculate anything — but people? No. Is it ADHD? Dyslexia? Autism? Maybe all three. Whatever the diagnosis, this world doesn’t fit me.
And when my mother leaves too... what then? Friends? Relatives? That’s comedy at its darkest.
Life’s brief. You only understand it after you lose your first true person. You run, work, run again... bills… Help? Nowhere.
So I ask myself: How does this end? Where did it all begin?
I’ve been awake for two days. I need to sleep. I mustn’t worry her.
The bed welcomes me. Warm. Soft. Swallowing me whole.
Eyes heavy. Mind fading. Finally... rest.
But a voice shoves me awake.
"Rhys… HEY! Rhys!”
Where… am I? Didn’t I fall asleep?
What is this place?
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