Trriiing, trriiing…
The alarm screeched through the quiet, yanking Nick from sleep. It felt louder today, more intrusive, as if reality itself was warning him. His hand slaps the phone, silencing the noise, but the damage is done. His body protests, heavy with exhaustion, but there’s no time to negotiate.
Six hours of sleep. That’s what the experts recommend. And technically, he got it—on a $ 10,000 mattress that promised baby-like comfort, in a room with central AC, wearing silk eye blinds and noise-canceling earbuds. According to his smartwatch, he had a “restful” night.
So why does he feel like he hasn’t slept at all?
With a deep sigh, he picks up his phone, squinting at the screen. Work emails. Ads for things he neither needs nor wants. A spam message claiming he won a million dollars. He scrolls, skims, deletes. His health app reports he’s doing great—heart rate stable, blood oxygen normal. According to the data, he’s a picture of wellness.
But data doesn’t feel fatigue.
Dragging himself to the bathroom, he lets the shower run, heating the water to the perfect temperature—because of course, that too is automated. He should feel refreshed afterward. He doesn’t.
Running on Auto-Pilot
Breakfast is textbook healthy: an omelet with toast, imported matcha tea from Japan, dragon fruit from China, cranberries labeled organic, fresh, locally sourced. The packaging screams quality, but the fine print whispers otherwise.
Not that it matters. He eats, not because he enjoys it, but because he must.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Dressed in neatly pressed branded clothes, he looks into the mirror. Average height. Average build. A face that neither stands out nor fades away. He isn’t out of shape, but he’s far from fit. His lifestyle doesn’t allow extremes—it keeps him neatly in the middle, just like everything else in his life.
Work is the same as always. The hours stretch. His colleagues are pleasant, their smiles practiced. He does what he does best—efficient, reliable, replaceable.
When the clock hits 8 PM, he breathes a little easier. Finally, he can leave.
Between Millions, Yet Alone
The first thing he does is call home. His mother’s voice is warm, his father’s steady. His sister laughs at something he says, and for a moment, something inside him untangles.
Outside, the city is alive, its streets pulsing with people who are all going somewhere. He moves through the crowd, unseen yet surrounded, heading toward the best spot to catch a taxi. His polished shoes pick up dust, his shirt clings to his back.
A cab finally stops. He slides in, sinking into the cracked leather seat. The traffic is a beast, snarling and unmoving. The driver talks—stories about the city, about life. Nick listens, nods, even laughs once.
For a few minutes, it feels real.
A Home That Feels Empty
The security guard at his apartment gives the usual nod, and Nick returns it, a silent exchange they repeat every night. The elevator dings as it carries him to the 25th floor.
Inside, the silence is thick. His apartment is modern, clean, comfortable—yet utterly lifeless.
He strips out of his work clothes, steps into another shower, trying to scrub away the exhaustion that never really leaves.
Hunger tugs at him. Normally, he’d order something healthy—something guilt-free, with words like organic, superfood, whole grain stamped all over it.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he orders a burger and fries, drowns it in ketchup, and washes it down with an ice-cold soda. It’s greasy. Salty. Delicious.
For the first time all day, he feels something close to joy.
Then guilt settles in. He pops an antacid. Swallows it dry.
Slipping into bed, he secures his earbuds, tightens his eye mask. The AI assistant’s voice hums softly:
"Cloudy and humid; a thunderstorm in spots in the morning, followed by a couple of thunderstorms in the afternoon."
No surprises.
Nothing ever changes.
And in a few hours, the alarm will ring again.
REQUEST
