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It’s quiet in their room in the way that only 5am quiet exists.
Not peaceful.
Just… empty.
They’re curled up in their bed, knees tucked in, tail wrapped tight like that might hold something together. The sheets smell faintly like them, static fur, stale warmth, hours spent not sleeping. Their ears twitch at nothing, the gem on their forehead flickering weakly. Their eyes stay open.
They haven’t slept yet.
Of course they haven’t.
The clock glows an accusing blue. 5:02. 5:03. Somewhere out there, normal Pokémon are waking up. Stretching. Eating breakfast. Starting something. Anything.
They’ve been lying here since they finally closed whatever useless tab they were scrolling through. Images, posts, videos, none of it overly memorable. Just time evaporating while their brain stayed occupied enough to not turn inward.
Now it has.
That’s always the mistake. Turning the lights off. Closing their eyes. Letting the noise die.
The thoughts rush in immediately, tripping over each other like they’ve been waiting all night for their turn.
They don’t do anything.
That’s the first one. The loudest.
They exist. That’s it. They take up space, burn oxygen, shed fur, consume food. They don’t contribute. They don’t matter. They’re background scenery in their own life, an NPC standing against the wall while everyone else actually plays the game.
Autopilot.
Days blur. Weeks blur. Months blur.
They couldn’t tell you what they did yesterday without thinking really hard about it. Or the day before. Or the one before that. Every day feels like a copy of the last, wake up late, feel like shit, waste time, hate themselves, promise tomorrow will be different, repeat.
Tomorrow never is.
They’re twenty-three.
Twenty-three and already exhausted like they’ve lived three wrong lives back to back. Twenty-three and somehow already late to everything. Love. Friends. Confidence. Purpose. Even basic fucking functioning.
Other Pokémon had first crushes in their teens. First kisses. Awkward dates. Mistakes you’re supposed to make early so they don’t haunt you later.
They have nothing. Absolutely nothing.
No first kiss.
No first time.
No partner.
No “we used to.”
Not even a genuine crush.
Just a hollow want sitting in their chest, aching for something they don’t even know how to recognize if it ever showed up. How stupid is it to desire something you don’t even understand?
They want connection so badly it hurts, and yet the idea of properly socializing with someone, anyone, makes their stomach twist. Five years. Five years since they’ve been properly social. Five years of retreating inward, of letting anxiety calcify until even typing a message feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
It’s not fair to expect Pokémon to pull them out. They know that. They hate that they know that. No one owes them friendship. No one owes them patience. No one is going to paw-hold them into a life.
And even if someone offered, they wouldn’t know how to believe it was real, or whether it would last long enough to matter. They couldn’t possibly handle an abandonment, betrayal, or heartbreak. They don’t think they’d ever come back from it.
They tell themselves they’re just introverted. Quiet. Shy. Awkward.
But that feels like a lie they’ve worn thin.
Maybe they’re just bad at being a Pokémon.
Just simply born defective.
They haven’t properly enjoyed the things they used to love for a while now. They don’t have any real hobbies or talents. When they aren’t at home in bed, they’re at their shitty, miserable job. They don’t have anyone in their life to make them actually go out and do something, anything.
Dreams? Goals? Aspirations? Scattered away like Cottonee in the wind.
Though that is under the assumption that they ever had any in the first place…
Hell, they barely even remember the last time they made a memory worth remembering. Five years ago?
Even then, their memories have been slipping more and more. They lived a very uneventful, unmemorable life. They couldn’t have wasted their youth any better if they tried.
They’ve not only been incapable of moving on from their past mistakes, but have instead drowned in them to the point where they’ve practically become their whole identity.
Now it’s far too late for regrets. They’ve long since missed their opportunity to forge their own path and become something they could possibly ever be proud of.
Does any of that stuff even matter anymore?
Their chest feels heavy. Always tired. Bone-deep tired that sleep never fixes. Sad, bored, lonely, frustrated, sometimes all at once, sometimes cycling so fast it’s dizzying. It’s been downhill for years now. Long enough that they can’t remember what “okay” felt like without doubting it ever existed. Just that same hopeless, empty feeling threatening to swallow them whole.
They’ve never been diagnosed. Never bothered. But come on. No one thinks like this every single day and calls it normal.
Suicidal thoughts drift in like background radiation. Not dramatic. Not urgent. Just… there. Every day. Familiar enough to be boring, scary enough to never fully ignore.
They haven’t tried anything. Not once.
Not because they’re strong.
Because there’s someone they know who would be badly hurt. Even if the overall damage would be small. Even if the world would barely notice the absence of some white noise.
The idea of causing any pain like that is unbearable.
So they survive.
Not live. Survive.
They don’t even know if they want to die. That’s the worst part. It’s not a clear desire. It’s just exhaustion. A bone-weary “I don’t know how to keep doing this” that never resolves into an answer.
Giving up feels inevitable. A matter of when, not if. They’ve accepted that some Pokémon just… don’t end up happy. The world doesn’t stop for them. It just keeps moving, stepping over the quiet failures without slowing down.
Maybe they’re one of those Pokémon. Born wrong. Wired wrong. Destined to hate themselves forever.
They don’t even understand their own identity. Not really. They’ve avoided it on purpose. The world is cruel enough to those who don’t fit within a neat little box of conformity they never consented to—why paint a bigger target on their own back? It hurts to live like this, in this skin, under these expectations, just fulfilling a role, but the alternative feels like inviting harassment they couldn’t possibly survive right now.
They didn’t ask to be the way they were. They don’t like it anymore themselves. But they knew others wouldn’t care nor understand.
Worse, understanding has never meant safety. It just means giving someone sharper words to potentially hurt them with later.
So they stay half-formed. Undefined. Hidden.
Another thing they’ve failed to finish.
Envy creeps in uninvited. Bitter, sharp. Seeing others with friends, partners, lives, then hearing them complain and act like everything sucks, like they don’t know how good they have it. It’s ugly. They hate feeling it. They hate blaming others. But it bubbles up anyway, resentment curling around loneliness like barbed wire. Such resentful, envious feelings that make them feel like such an awful Pokémon.
This is their fault too. All of it. Their silence. Their distance. The way they freeze instead of reaching out. Anyone looking at them would probably just think they’re uninterested. Aloof. Just shy. Dodging every single opportunity that dares to be handed to them.
If only they knew how badly they want to be wanted.
They don’t want pills.
They don’t want hotlines.
They don’t want someone whose job description includes caring.
They want someone to care because they do. No script. No obligation. No tiptoeing around, as if they’re made out of stained-glass. Just… genuine.
They just want to feel included in something other than their own despair.
…
They probably don’t even deserve it. To burden others with their problematic existence. They don’t deserve others’ time, patience, care, or even acknowledgment.
They deserve to be alone.
They did it to themselves, after all.
They chose to live life this way, after all.
They chose to suffer quietly instead of searching for an answer, after all.
They’re the one who fucked everything up for themselves.
They deserve everything.
All. Their. Fault.
Their throat tightens. They turn their face into the pillow, claws curling into the fabric beneath them. Their eyes burn before the tears come, stubborn and quiet.
When they do come, it’s soft. Silent. Shaking breaths they try to swallow back. The kind of crying you do when you don’t even feel like you deserve to make noise about it.
Arceus, how pathetic.
At some point, their claws start digging into their own skin. Traces of scarlet bead up from beneath their fur, staining the sheets below. But that’s a problem to care about later. They just want everything to shut the fuck up.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. Not peace. Just fatigue dragging them under.
Their breathing evens out. Tears soak into the pillow. The room stays dark.
Tomorrow will come anyway.
And somehow… so will they.