Prologue

Streetlights reflected on the wet asphalt—either from the rain that had just stopped, or from puddles that hadn't had time to evaporate all day. I walked among the shadows of tall buildings, my steps quick, but my heart empty. Around me, the world moved as usual. But it felt like I was walking outside of time.

My steps paused briefly at a red light.

Across the street, a couple was laughing. The girl fed her partner small bites of street food while holding his hand. They weren't in a hurry. They had time. They… looked at each other. It felt foreign to me. I can't even remember the last time someone truly saw me—not out of formality or a passing glance.

A few meters away, a small family sat on a park bench. The father carried their sleeping child, while the mother smiled at them both. Warm. Peaceful. As if their world was inside a bubble that shielded them from the harshness of the night. I looked at them, then turned my face away. Not out of jealousy. But because it hurt too much to keep looking.

A little further down, a group of young people laughed loudly, joking without a care. One of them slapped a friend's back hard enough to make him pretend to fall, and they all laughed again. Their energy was different. Not drained. Not tired. As if they still believed tomorrow could be better—without needing to worry about today.

I can't remember the last time I laughed like that—genuinely, not out of politeness. Even during short chats with coworkers, I have to measure my words, hold back complaints, pretend to be strong. Because in this world, weakness is seen as a flaw, and burdens are considered personal responsibilities.

I just stood there, watching them live the way humans are meant to. While I… was just heading home. No one waiting. No one to greet me. No light conversation or a hand I could hold. Just an empty hallway, a bedroom door, and a dim light.

In the place I live, silence is the everyday background music. I take off my shoes, hang my bag, run the water, then sit at the edge of my bed. I toss my phone next to the pillow—no one to wait for. Incoming messages are just work notifications, discount ads, or bills. No "have you eaten?" or "tired today?" And I stopped hoping for messages like that a long time ago.

Sometimes, after I've turned off the lights and my body lies in darkness, I can hear laughter from the next room. Maybe a couple watching a movie, or friends having a sleepover. I quietly close my eyes tighter, trying to shut out the reality that I'm alone. Not just physically alone—but lonely all the way through.

Sometimes I ask myself: is life really supposed to be like this? Full of routine, with no support, no way out, no pause?

But who would answer?

I often ask myself—why was I born into this world?

I have no home to return to. No family waiting. No name I can call with love. All I can do is watch from afar—watch people laugh, grow, feel safe… and I envy them.

They have a home. They have someone who loves them. They have a place in this world. And me? I'm just a shadow on the roadside, always alone, always quietly hoping.

I want to be like them—free, loved, embraced by a warm fate. But I can't. I'm trapped in a destiny that feels like a curse. As if the world is telling me, "You're not worthy."

People say, "Don't give up. Life must go on." But do they know how heavy each step is for me every day? Do they truly understand what I carry? Don't teach me how to live when the life I have… doesn't even feel like it's mine.

I have no identity. I always have to be alert, hiding, running. Always on guard, as if every corner is a threat. It's not fair. It's never been fair.

They lied. They said life could get better, but look at me… my life has been broken from the start. And somehow, I'm the one who has to take the punishment. What did I do wrong?

I want to change everything. I want to believe in hope. But… what if hope never comes? What if the future was never meant for me?

I'm tired. I want to stop. I want to die.

I lie on a thin mattress that somehow feels colder each day. The ceiling above me is empty, plain. No decorations. No stories. Just like my life now.

I blink slowly. Seconds pass. Outside, vehicles still come and go. Sounds still echo. The world hasn't gone to sleep. But my eyes can no longer bear the weight.

I drift off—not because I want to, but because my body forces me to rest.

And like all the nights before, I hope… someone out there, reading this, realizes they are not alone. That someone understands, even if only through the words on this page.

This book isn't entirely about me. But it is a mirror—for those who have no one to lean on, for those who laugh in silence, for those who hope without making a sound.

If you are one of them… then welcome. You've found your story. Our story.

I wake up before the sun opens its eyes. The alarm still rings in my ears as one foot touches the cold floor. There's never enough time in this city. Five minutes late can mean an extra hour on the road, trapped in a sea of people all trying to move faster than you.

The city of Shionra, where the fast win. The slow? Crushed, pushed aside, forgotten.

I brush my teeth while checking notifications. Breakfast? Skipped. Getting to the office is more important than a slice of bread or a cup of tea. I take the same train every day, stand in the same spot, surrounded by the same faces. Faces that look down, glued to phone screens, shut off from the world around them. In that train car, there are no warm greetings or friendly smiles—only haste, rush, and exhaustion.

Sometimes, I glance at those faces. Some have puffy eyes, some grip their coffee bottles too tightly, as if it's their last source of strength. Behind the suits, behind the makeup, everyone looks the same: tired but trying. And strangely, that gives me a little comfort. That maybe… I'm not alone in this loneliness.

But there's no time to be tired.

Workers sleep briefly, dream big. Ironic, isn't it? This city gives you a stage to dream sky-high, but barely gives you time to sleep, let alone dream.

People say I'm still young. Supposed to be full of energy, idealism, and bright laughter untouched by the world. But what they don't know is this young body carries a weariness that never fades. My dreams are big, but the time to rest is too short. And eventually, those dreams feel like shadows: there, but always out of reach.

My job looks stable from the outside. Air-conditioned office, tidy desk, a boss who always smiles at clients. But behind the scenes, there are shoulders nearly broken by invisible weight. There are tears swallowed quietly in the toilet stall, pressure crawling like ants biting nerves. A job that looks stable, but hides heavy burdens.

At work or at home, my face still looks bright. But the truth? I'm tired. A tiredness I can't show because the world moves too fast to notice.

Driving or taking public transport, the exhaustion is the same. Both drain time, energy, and patience. Sometimes I sit in a corner of the train, close my eyes—not because I'm sleepy, but to disappear for a moment.

I once asked if life was really meant to be like this. But I quickly brushed off the thought. In this city, time is money. And money is the only way I can survive.

People say life should be balanced—work, play, rest. But that's just sweet talk from motivational seminars. In reality, I've learned to sort and surrender. The longer I live in this city, the more I learn when to sleep, when to scroll my phone, when to work nonstop. Life is no longer about what I want, but about what I can still do without breaking.

Today is the same. I leave the office when night has fallen, but the city is still awake. Car lights dazzle, the roads are still crowded, horns blare back and forth. I walk fast, like everyone else. Maybe because I want to get home quickly, or maybe because I'm afraid of missing something I haven't even realized.

At that intersection, I see my own reflection in the glass of a tall building. My face pale, eyes weary, shoulders slumped. I try to smile at that reflection—but what I see is a stranger. As if I'm playing someone else every day.

Day or night, don't expect too much. This is a city that never sleeps, and the people in it are used to fighting off sleep just to stay alive.

This city gives no space for stillness. Here, stillness means defeat.

And me? Somehow, I'm still standing.

Maybe because within my silence, there's a hope I haven't yet spoken. Maybe because I know there are many out there living the same way. Just as tired. Just as alone. Just as in need of someone who understands—but too hard to find.