Chapter Text
He took a drag of his cigarette. The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold and fire over a quiet horizon. Pretty. Distant. Unreachable.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deep, letting the taste of nicotine coat his lungs like ash. It was bitter. It always was. But it was something. Something to feel when everything else felt like static. He hated the taste. He needed the taste.
It reminded him he was still here.
Sometimes he wondered if the cigarette cared more about him than most people did. It held him. Burned him. Stayed with him, even when it was killing him.
Life was cruel in its silence—handing out joy like a raffle prize, skipping over people like him. Twenty-six years in, and most of it felt like standing in the rain, waiting for someone to remember you’re still outside.
He was tired of pretending. Of being that guy. The cheerful one. The one everyone laughed with, leaned on. The one no one really saw. Just a mask they could smile at while the real him faded behind the glass.
To them, he probably looked lucky.
To him, it felt like drowning in an empty pool.
He stubbed out the cigarette and went inside. The view was gone. The feeling was gone. Only the numbness lingered, clinging like smoke in his clothes.
The stack of mail on the table hadn’t moved in days. Maybe weeks. He sifted through it without thinking. Junk. Bills. Another reminder of how normal life pretended to be.
He glanced at the wilting houseplant someone had given him once—some well-meaning gesture of life.
I should water it, he thought.
Tomorrow.
If there is one.
The fridge held nothing he wanted. Hunger wasn’t real anymore. Just a ghost he ignored. He pulled out a carrot and chewed, not because he was hungry, but because it felt like motion. Movement. Life.
He sank into the couch, let it swallow him. Closed his eyes and let his body fall limp.
His fingers tapped against his knee, no rhythm, no purpose. Just noise. Just something. To prove he was still here.
He had fought to stay grounded. Fought against the pull of the void. It whispered in moments like these, gentle and kind:
Let go. You’ve done enough.
And some nights, he believed it. Believed that if he slipped away, no one would even notice. That the world would spin on without a ripple.
But then—
Beep.
A vibration in his pocket. A message.
From:
Sas — I miss you.
Three words. Small. Simple. Soft. And somehow, they cut through the fog like a pinprick of light.
His fingers moved before he could think.
To: Sas
From:
Nar — I miss u 2. x
He tossed the phone aside. Let the silence swallow him again. But now it was… quieter. Less cruel. Like the world had tilted, just slightly.
He picked up the bong, flicked his lighter. The familiar scent of marijuana bloomed in the air, thick and musky. He took a deep hit, coughing until his ribs ached.
The sting was real. The sting was good. It reminded him he could still feel.
People called it a crutch. Maybe it was. But when you’ve been limping through life with an invisible wound, you take whatever keeps you upright.
He leaned back, arms wrapping around himself. A poor substitute for comfort, but it was what he had.
Was he okay?
No.
Would he be?
…Maybe.
If not today, maybe tomorrow.
He wanted to believe he could be more than this ache. More than the weight. More than the mask. He wanted to believe someone, somewhere, would love him loud and honest. No conditions. No expectations.
Maybe not yet.
Maybe not now.
But maybe.
He stood, heavy-limbed and slow, and wandered into the bathroom. The mirror didn’t lie. Blonde hair, dull and dry. Eyes half-dead. Not even sadness there—just quiet.
He touched his face, fingertips grazing the faint lines people called whiskers.
A reminder of who he used to be. Or who he was supposed to be.
Who am I?
His reflection stared back. Waiting.
A whisper:
I’m Naruto.
A smile formed—thin, shaky. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something.
Just for a second, he believed it.
Then he turned away. Switched off the light. Let the dark have him again.
Back in his room, he dropped onto the bed face-first. The mattress creaked under him. He didn’t care.
“I left that half-eaten carrot on the table,” he mumbled.
It was a mess.
But so was he.
And for now, that was enough.