As the sun set in Washington DC, the city turned orange and gold.

Everything outside seemed calm and beautiful.

The streets were full of people going home, kids laughing in the parks, and leaves rustling in the cool evening breeze.

But in my small, messy apartment, I screamed out loud in frustration.

For the 50th time, Malenia Blade of Miquella defeated me, and the words "You Died!" taunted me on my screen.

I felt an itch in my stubby beard.

"Ah! Damn it, there was only a little more to go..." I sighed, my voice full of irritation and resignation.

I glanced out my window, surprised to see it had turned to evening.

"Oh! It's evening already."

Suddenly, my phone rang, breaking the silence of the room.

I stood up, kicking aside the piles of takeout containers and trash that had collected over the week.

"I should really clean this place," I thought as I searched through the mess on my bed to find my phone.

Seeing 'Mom' on the caller ID, I sighed and braced myself for the conversation ahead.

Through my glasses, my eyes stared at the screen in front of me.

"Hello," I said, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice; I didn't want Mom to worry. "Peter! So, how have you been?" her voice came through, warm and filled with that familiar concern that always made me feel comforted yet slightly suffocated.

"Fine," I replied, a bit too sharply.

"That's good, I have sent you this month's allowance," she said, her tone light but filled with responsibility.

"Thanks," I muttered, shifting uncomfortably on my feet.

"Is everything at school alright? You sound weak," she probed, her motherly intuition in full force.

"No mom, everything's A-OK," I assured her, forcing a cheerfulness into my voice while playing with the edge of my shirt.

"That's good. Are you taking care of your health?" she continued.

"Yeah," I replied shortly, rubbing the back of my neck, avoiding the reality of my messy, unhealthy lifestyle.

"Don't play around too much, ok," she cautioned.

"Ok, mom," I responded, nodding even though she couldn't see me.

"Study hard, ok, my little pookie bear," she said endearingly.

I cringed slightly at the nickname, feeling both loved and embarrassed.

"Thanks, mom," I said quickly, eager to end the call before she could sense my discomfort or press any further.

I hung up, placing the phone down and wrapping one hand over my head, feeling a mix of relief and a nagging sense that I was letting her down.

It was a lie, a carefully constructed facade that I'd maintained with an expert's skill.

I hadn't been to the university in months, maybe longer.

Reflecting back, it was three years ago when my journey started, moving from Silver Spring, MD to Washington DC for my studies.

Initially, everything about the city seemed dazzling and full of promise.

A new city, new faces, the exhilarating feeling of a fresh start, and even the hint of a new love lurking around the corner.

Yet, three months after my admission, when the first semester was halfway through, a stark realization hit me - I was utterly alone.

As I looked around, everyone had seamlessly formed their own cliques, their laughter and camaraderie echoing in the halls, a stark contrast to my solitude.

"Crap, crap, crap," I muttered to myself, a sense of panic setting in.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

I'm too slow. What do I do?

The overwhelming feeling of being an outsider gnawed at me, especially when I sat alone for meals, feeling the imaginary weight of everyone's laughter and judgment.

For the first year, despite this isolation, I still attended classes, driven by a sense of duty and the fear of the consequences of not graduating.

I was diligent, taking notes and pretending that everything was normal.

But during my second year, something shifted.

It felt as though an invisible force was anchoring my feet, rendering me incapable of moving towards what I knew I needed to do.

Since then, my days at the university ceased.

Three years passed in a blur of gaming and aimless flapping, a testament to wasted time and lost opportunities.

"I can't go on like this," I often thought to myself, feeling a sense of desperation creeping in.

I need to do something, but what's the point now?

In three years, one could discover love, embark on countless adventures, or undergo significant personal growth.

Yet, what did I achieve in these three years? Absolutely nothing.

As I pondered my future, the inevitable confrontation with my mother loomed large in my mind.

"I'm screwed, absolutely screwed," I'd think, the anxiety of that impending revelation always present.

I lacked any special talent or skill that could easily pave my way to a career.

The fear of what lay ahead, coupled with the knowledge of my wasted years, left me in a state of paralysis, a prisoner of my own making.

What would become of me when the truth came out?

I sighed, closing Elden Ring with a sense of detachment; I just wasn't in the mood for it anymore.

As I leaned back in my chair, a strange notification popped up on my screen:

CNN: Ash Ketchum has finally become a Pokémon Master.

I blinked, a small smile forming as a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

Pokémon had been a monumental part of my life growing up.

I fondly recalled my first game, Pokémon Platinum, and how I used to religiously follow the Pokémon anime and even delve into the manga.

To me, Pokémon was more than just a pastime; it was an integral part of my childhood.

My peers often called me "Ash," a nickname born from my love for Pokémon and my last name, Asher.

Throughout my childhood, this nickname was a badge of honor.

However, as I grew older, my passion for the anime waned, especially after the episode where Ash's Pikachu was defeated by Trip's Snivy.

That moment felt like a betrayal, diminishing all of Ash's past victories and efforts.

The Sinnoh victories, the triumph over Paul, and even the battles against Darkrai and Latias—all seemed to lose their significance in the face of the anime's repetitive storytelling.

The frustration and disillusionment I felt that day led me to abandon my love for Pokémon anime.

The manga was enjoyable, but without the support to pursue that interest, it too fizzled out.

Even my excitement for the games dwindled after playing X and Y.

Now, reading through the CNN article about Ash Ketchum's triumph, I couldn't help but laugh at the irony.

Here was Ash Ketchum, a character I once admired, achieving the ultimate goal, celebrated by fans worldwide.

Meanwhile, I, Peter Asher, another "Ash," was surrounded by the debris of my own failures.

Staring at the image of Ash Ketchum holding the world champion's trophy, I mused.

I should have been like you.

I pondered why I had given up so easily, why I hadn't persevered like the fictional character I once idolized.

Why did one Ash succeed while the other failed?

I asked myself, my voice barely a whisper in the cluttered room.

The question hung in the air, unanswered, as I rubbed the stubble on my chin, feeling the weight of my own unmet potential.

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The night air bit sharply against my skin as I mechanically strolled down the sidewalk toward the convenience store, my mind almost numb to the familiar path.

My eyes caught a glimpse of a small family—a girl laughing gleefully on her father's shoulders, her joy weaving through the chilly air.

Her mother's hand was clasped firmly in her husband's as they walked swiftly in the opposite direction.

I paused, feeling a sudden pang of longing. Will I ever be able to have a family of my own?

I wondered, the thought springing up without invitation.

Almost instantly, I snorted in derision, my shoulders slumping slightly.

Who would want to be with a loser like me? I mumbled to myself, my gaze dropping to the ground.

As I looked at the family, there it was—desire.

The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.

A desire to be like them surged through me, but it was quickly tainted by a familiar disgust at my own shortcomings and a burning envy of others.

Why can't I have that?

Why do I always end up here, alone and wanting?

I thought, my heart aching with each step. My hands tucked deeper into my pockets as I stood there, feeling the cold more acutely, almost as if the night itself was emphasizing my isolation.

The light from the streetlamps seemed harsh, casting long shadows that mirrored the dark thoughts crossing my mind.

With a heavy sigh, I shook my head and forced myself to move on.

I quickened my pace, desperate to escape the swirl of gloomy thoughts, and soon found myself inside the convenience store. Picking out a few snacks did little to distract me from my earlier reflections.

As I left, the familiar ding of the door closing behind me echoed, pulling me back into the comforting stillness of the night.

Just then, a glint in the bushes caught my eye.

Curiosity drew me closer, and nestled among the leaves, I found something almost surreal—a Pokeball.

I picked it up, my fingers tracing its detailed craftsmanship.

It felt almost real in my hands, grounding me momentarily away from my burdens.

"Did someone drop this?" I wondered, allowing the curiosity to momentarily lighten my thoughts.

Yet, holding the Pokeball, my mind inevitably circled back to my own perceived failures.

Why is the world reminding me of my failures?

I thought bitterly, thinking of the recent BBC article about Ash Ketchum, and now this toy.

My grip tightened around the Pokeball.

In a moment of defiance, I told myself, "If I were in Ash's place, I could have done everything he did, but better."

This thought, whether a genuine belief or a desperate attempt to boost my dwindling self-esteem, lingered in my mind.

Was I consoling myself with the fact that Ash was just a fictional character and that in his shoes, I could have achieved greatness?

Or was this just a cruel reminder of my own shortcomings, a mockery of the fact that I was the Ash who had failed?

With a sigh, I clicked the center button of the Pokeball.

As it opened, a bright red light enveloped me, and in an instant, everything around me turned to black.