Chapter 4: The Invisible Goodbye

The first time had been small.

The second time felt easier.

It wasn't much—just a little money here, a little lie there. Arin told himself it didn't matter. His parents barely noticed him. What difference did it make?

But something inside him shifted every time he did it.

Something fragile broke, piece by piece.

At home, he kept smiling the way they expected. His sister Maya was busy with college applications. His younger brother Sam was still the baby everyone adored. His parents' faces were tired, distracted, but full of warmth—just not for him.

Arin drifted between them like a shadow.

Not seen. Not heard.

Optional.

He stopped opening his school books. Stopped caring when teachers called his name. The games became his world now—the only place where he could win, where he could lose, where he could feel.

The arguments began small:

"Why are your grades so bad?"

"Why do you waste time?"

"Why can't you be more like—?"

The names blurred. The words blurred. He stopped answering.

But what he never said—what he buried deep—was that it wasn't about the games.

It was about escaping the emptiness.

About trying, desperately, not to disappear completely.

One night, as he lay awake staring at the ceiling stars that had long lost their glow, he felt something soft but sharp in his heart:

Maybe… they wouldn't even notice if he was gone.

Maybe, one day, he could just… leave without a sound.

A quiet, invisible goodbye.

He closed his eyes.

And the thought stayed.