Chapter 4

Soundtrack for this chapter:

Three Days Grace - "Lifetime"

As Ethan stepped into the empty corridors of the dormitory, his footsteps echoed in the oppressive silence. His single room met him with its usual, oppressive grayness. The air here was stale, heavy, and sticky, as if it hadn't been aired out for days. The dim light from the single lamp only emphasized the general desolation: shabby furniture, a desk piled high with textbooks, a stack of dirty clothes in the corner—it all screamed of his apathy and indifference toward his own life.

He collapsed onto the bed, which creaked familiarly under his weight, and stared at the ceiling. In his eyes, so recently extinguished, fragments of memories now flickered: Sky's defiant gaze, her raspy voice, her strange "bluff" on the bridge, the smell of cigarettes and that unusual perfume. She was a flash of color in his gray world, a dissonance that had disrupted the familiar, painful harmony of non-existence. He felt drained, but this emptiness was now tinged with something new, something incomprehensible. This wasn't the familiar, all-consuming apathy that had become his only refuge. It was a new, fragile, barely perceptible emotion—a mix of confusion, irritation, slight fear, and, most surprisingly, a glimmer of interest.

The night slowly melted away, giving way to a new day, but the morning arrived gray and oppressive, just like his inner world. The sun's rays, if they could even be called that, barely penetrated the grimy window, illuminating only new layers of dust. They brought no light, only emphasized the gloom. However, in this bleak grayness, Ethan could now discern a subtle, faint hue—as if someone unseen had added a drop of another color to his monochrome existence. That drop was Sky.

He didn't understand what this feeling was, but it pulsed somewhere deep inside him, unfamiliar and painful, yet alive. His brain, accustomed to a meaningless existence, began to work reluctantly, trying to process what had happened, and he could feel the process causing a light but real dizziness. He tried to brush away the thoughts of her, but her image, her words, her strange rescue—it all clung to him like a splinter under his skin.

He felt he no longer belonged entirely to himself, that something had irreversibly changed. And this change, though frightening, at the same time prevented him from sinking back into his previous state. He had been pulled out of it, albeit against his will, and now he would have to live with this new, uncomfortable feeling.

Just as Ethan began to sink back into his thoughts about Sky, the phone lying on his nightstand vibrated sharply, breaking the silence of the room. The bright screen lit up, displaying a familiar and painful name: "Mom (Sarah)." Ethan's heart skipped a beat, then began to pound with an unpleasant speed. He stared at the name as if it were a brand.

A long, agonizing hesitation. He didn't want to answer. He didn't want to dive back into the sea of mutual pain that surrounded their relationship. But he knew that not answering would only postpone the inevitable and worsen his guilt. Slowly, as if lifting an invisible weight, he reached out and accepted the call.

— Ethan? You picked up. I was starting to think… — Sarah's voice, coming from the speaker, was full of a weariness and a hidden pain that felt almost physical. Her sentence trailed off, but Ethan knew exactly what she meant: she was starting to think he was ignoring her again, that he was withdrawing into himself again. It was their usual tango: her attempt to get through, his wall of indifference hiding a wounded soul.

Ethan forced out a grunt, something like an indistinct "Mm."

— Your dean called, Ethan, — Sarah didn't beat around the bush, her voice trembling. — He said you're not showing up for your lectures at all. What's going on? You have to get a grip. — Her words held not only concern but also unspoken disappointment and fear for his future, which she saw as ruined. — Your future… we tried so hard to get you in…

— I know, Mom, — Ethan's voice was hollow, almost lifeless. He turned away from the phone, staring at the wall as if trying to find answers there. He could feel her pain, her desperation, but he didn't know how to break through her defensive wall, because his own was no thinner.

— You have to. You can't just throw it all away, — Sarah continued, a steely note entering her voice that Ethan knew so well. It was the pressure that had been weighing on him since the day his brother died. — Your brother… he would have been proud if you kept studying. He always believed in you. Do you really want to disappoint him?

The mention of his brother was a gut punch for Ethan. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

— Don't talk about him, Mom, — he hissed, his voice low, almost inaudible. It was the first thing he'd said with any emotion, and that emotion was anger mixed with pain.

A heavy pause hung on the other end of the line. Then Sarah continued, her voice softer, almost pleading.

— We've been through so much, Ethan… We have to stick together, don't we? I just want you to be okay. For you to be… like you were before.

— Like before? — Ethan felt a wave of dull irritation rise within him. "Like before" meant his brother's presence, and that "before" would never exist again. He snorted, but the sound came out as a hoarse rasp. — That 'before' is gone, Mom. It's never coming back.

— You don't understand… — Sarah began, but Ethan cut her off.

— No, it's you who doesn't understand! — his voice suddenly grew louder, filled with bitterness. — You and Dad. You're stuck in your grief. You don't see that I… I'm trying. But you just push. You just remember. And I… — The words got stuck in his throat. He couldn't say that he needed a different kind of help, one not burdened by their own sorrow.

A sigh full of disappointment and powerlessness came from the other end.

— Just… try, Ethan. Please, just try, — her voice sounded as if she were on the verge of breaking down. — We'll talk about this later. When you're ready.

— Sure, — Ethan replied hollowly, already knowing that "later" would never come. He felt her disappointment, and it only intensified his own sense of guilt and worthlessness.

The phone call had turned into torture. This wasn't support, but another burden. Ethan felt that his mother, without meaning to, was only deepening his isolation. He needed a different form of support, one that wasn't weighed down by someone else's grief, one that didn't demand he "get a grip," but simply accepted him as he was—broken, but searching. But Sarah, mired in her own sorrow, couldn't give him that. He felt the thread connecting them growing even thinner, threatening to snap at any moment.

The phone was still pressed to his ear, his mother's voice continuing to drone from the speaker, but Ethan was barely listening anymore. He could feel her desperation—it was tangible, like the leaden weight he himself knew so well. He understood her pain, but he didn't know how to break through her defensive wall. And did he even want to? His own wall was no thinner, and his mother's attempts to breach it only provoked a dull, rising irritation.

— Ethan, are you listening to me? You have to understand that it's time to move on. You're so talented, you always loved music so much… When are you going to sit at the piano again? — her voice sounded as if she were trying to reach him through a thick layer of ice. Every word, filled with care, was a painful jab. — When will you be like you were before?

That question, "when will you be like you were before," burned the most. For him, "before" meant his brother's presence, his laughter, their jam sessions at the piano. Without his brother, there would never be a "like before." It wasn't just a comparison to the past; it was a demand to bring back what was irretrievably lost, a demand he could not meet. He felt his jaw clench, his body tense as if bracing for a blow. He was irritated by her attempts to "normalize" him, by her questions that, in her mind, were supposed to motivate but in reality only pushed him further into a corner.

— I… I don't know, Mom, — he mumbled in response, his voice hollow, almost inaudible. He was trying to feign indifference, to end the agonizing conversation as quickly as possible. Every word was a struggle. He didn't want to talk about music, about his brother, about his future. It was all too painful, too complicated.

Sarah sighed, the sound of her disappointment reaching his ears. "Alright, Ethan. Just… think about it. We're family. We love you."

— Yeah, Mom. Bye, — Ethan cut the conversation off almost abruptly, not waiting for a response. He quickly pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the screen as if expecting to see a brand mark there. He felt guilty, but this guilt was mixed with relief. He had pushed her away, but it was the only thing he could do to protect himself from a new round of pain.

This scene once again highlighted his alienation. "Traditional" support, based on memories of the past and a desire for "normalcy," wasn't working. It only intensified his isolation, forcing him to hide even deeper in his shell. He needed someone who would see the new him, broken but alive, not demand the return of the "old" Ethan, who no longer existed.

Ethan slowly placed the phone on the nightstand, his fingers releasing the device as if it were a red-hot brand. The ringing silence of the room crashed down on him again, but now it seemed even more oppressive than before the call. He was tired. Tired of the pain, of his mother's attempts to "normalize" him, of himself.

In the dim light of the room, reflected off the dark, dead screen of the phone, Ethan saw his own reflection. It was pale, almost ghostly, with noticeable bags under his eyes and a three-day stubble that only emphasized his gauntness. The extinguished gaze he knew so well from mornings in the mirror now seemed even emptier, staring into nothingness.

He slowly ran a hand through his medium-length hair, which hadn't been combed in a long time and looked disheveled and unkempt, like a neglected garden. This was his new, frightening appearance. He remembered his former self—an athletic, brown-haired guy, full of life and a passion for music, the person he was before his world collapsed. That Ethan, who could play the piano for hours, who laughed with his brother, was now just a shadow, a distant memory that only brought a new wave of melancholy.

The thought, "the spark is gone," flashed through his mind again. It wasn't just regret for a lost talent; it was the realization that he had lost the ability to feel, to create, to see meaning in the future. He was convinced that he had lost the chance to ever be a whole person again, that without his brother his life was meaningless, and that he himself did not deserve happiness. This reflection in the dead screen was living proof of his brokenness, his complete powerlessness.

His lips twisted into a bitter smirk. He was just an empty vessel. This new appearance he saw was frightening because it was a true reflection of his inner void. Ethan closed his eyes, trying to erase the image from his memory, but it was already imprinted on his consciousness, solidifying his current state and making any subsequent changes—if they were ever to happen—even more noticeable.