Chapter 9: The Invisible Goodbye (Part II)

The rain fell softly that evening—thin drops tracing the windows, blurring the outside world into pale shadows.

Arin sat in the same spot, by the same window, the soft glow of his phone screen flickering across his tired face. The game was open, but he wasn't playing. His hands were still. His eyes distant.

It had been weeks—months maybe—since he'd felt anything real. The small rebellions, the hiding, the quiet arguments… none of it mattered now.

The fear of being optional had twisted into something heavier:

The quiet belief that he was already gone.

He heard laughter from the other room.

He heard his name, called lazily, but he didn't answer.

They would stop calling eventually. They always did.

That night, as the house slept, Arin wrote something for the first time in his life.

A single sentence on a scrap of paper, shaky and small:

"I'm sorry I wasn't enough."

He didn't know why he wrote it. He didn't plan anything.

It just… came.

He folded the paper, tucked it beneath his pillow, and lay back, eyes open to the quiet dark above him.

For a moment, he wondered if the stars on his ceiling remembered who he used to be.

Then he closed his eyes.

And let the silence take him.