Mateo sat in the darkness of his room, his head resting in his hands. The dim light from his desk lamp cast shadows across the walls, and the only sound he could hear was the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room. He had woken early, before the sun, as he often did now. Sleep had become a restless enemy, leaving him with deep shadows under his eyes and a constant heaviness in his body.

Exam season was over. He had worked hard, spending countless hours refining his essays, memorizing theories and formulas that now felt distant and meaningless. The results had arrived the day before: He had passed with solid grades, the kind most people would have been proud of. But for Mateo, it meant nothing. Just emptiness.

He slowly raised his head, letting his gaze wander around the room. The walls were bare, except for a faded poster he had put up when he first moved in. It depicted a deep green forest bathed in misty morning light, but now it only reminded him of everything he no longer felt—peace, wonder, freedom. Everything felt constricted, suffocating. He stared at the walls and felt like a rootless shadow caught in the wrong life.

He got up and walked to the window. The light from the streets below flickered like tiny stars, and the city was quiet, wrapped in morning fog. He opened the window, and the cool air hit his face like a slap. A car roared past far in the distance, and somewhere out of sight, he heard the sound of garbage being emptied into bins. Life carried on for others, but for Mateo, time felt frozen.

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He rested his forehead on the window and let out a faint breath. The thought came suddenly, quietly, but overwhelmingly: What’s the point?

He didn’t know how long he had been staring out when his phone vibrated on the table. He reached for it without really wanting to know who it was. The screen lit up. It was a message from his mother.

How did it go? Did you get your grades? Remember, we’re here if you need anything.

Mateo stared at the words for a long time. His fingers didn’t move. The message felt like a reminder of something he had lost—a closeness he once took for granted but now seemed distant and unreachable. He knew he should reply. His mother was always worried about him. But he couldn’t.

He put the phone down and returned to his desk, where his books lay scattered. These weren’t textbooks but books he had once found comfort in: crime novels, fantasy, stories about heroic journeys. But now they were just objects—relics of a time when he still felt something.

Mateo put on a podcast about an old criminal case. The words passed in one ear and out the other. He wasn’t really listening, but the sound filled the silence, and that was enough.

Yet something was different this morning. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a restless energy built up inside him, a need to move, to do something. The apartment suddenly felt too small, too claustrophobic. He stood up abruptly and walked to the door. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew one thing: he had to get out.