Artham stalked down the dimly lit school corridor, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the cold, polished tiles. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting jagged shadows across his face, making him appear ghostly—like a prisoner pacing within the walls of an invisible cage. His expression remained as lifeless as the dull tiles beneath his shoes, his mind heavy with the weight of his own thoughts.
Around him, fragments of conversation buzzed like a swarm of relentless flies, grating on his nerves. The students' voices rose and fell, gossiping about the latest episode of the wildly popular TV show Genius Boy, a name that seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Their chatter seeped into his ears despite his efforts to shut it out.
Genius Boy.
A global sensation, the show followed a young man with a rare genetic mutation, allowing him to mimic anyone’s skills with terrifying efficiency. But today, the usual excitement surrounding the show had morphed into hushed speculation. Rumors swirled that Genius Boy—the star himself—wanted to quit. For reasons unknown, people whispered that he was growing dissatisfied with his life, tired of living under the weight of endless expectations, desperate to escape the suffocating spotlight.
Artham’s jaw clenched as their words burrowed into his mind, unwelcome and irritating. Escape from the spotlight. How many of them, he wondered, could even begin to grasp what it meant to feel trapped by something greater than yourself, to feel your identity slipping away under the constant pressure to meet the world’s demands? He quickened his pace, his fists tightening in frustration, desperate to leave behind the endless noise of meaningless chatter.
He pushed through the heavy library doors, the sudden silence inside offering him a refuge from the world. The smell of aged paper and dust filled the air, comforting in its familiarity. His eyes scanned the room, searching for solitude. Spotting an empty corner, he made his way over, picking up a random book from the nearby shelf, more out of habit than intention.
As he dropped into the chair, Artham's gaze fell upon the cover of the book, his brow furrowing slightly. It wasn’t the usual dry academic tome he expected. A fantasy novel, tucked away amid the textbooks. Something about it felt… out of place, as if it had been deliberately hidden there, waiting to be found. He hesitated for a moment, then gave in, flipping through the pages.
The story unfolded like a tapestry before his eyes, pulling him in deeper with each turn. It told of a boy who played an RPG game that transcended reality, a game where the hero lived in a never-ending cycle of death and resurrection. Each time the hero fell, he regressed—only to rise again, stronger, fighting to save a world on the brink of collapse.
Artham’s fingers gripped the edges of the pages as the tale drew him in, the fictional world consuming his thoughts. He had chosen the book on a whim, but now he couldn’t put it down. The vivid descriptions, the high stakes, the sense of fighting against an inevitable fate—it all resonated with something deep within him.
Was this book a mistake? he wondered. Or had someone deliberately left it behind, like a message hidden in plain sight?
His gaze stilled on a line that caught him off guard, halting the momentum of his reading.
Are you satisfied with your life?
The question leapt from the page like an accusation, its bluntness slicing through Artham’s thoughts, forcing him to pause. His heartbeat quickened, the words lingering in his mind with a weight that felt almost unbearable. Was he? The simplicity of the question was deceptive. It demanded an answer he wasn’t ready to give, one that, deep down, he knew he couldn’t truthfully speak.
The library around him seemed to dissolve, the shelves and books fading into a distant blur. For a moment, it felt as though the novel had spoken directly to him, its question reverberating in his thoughts like an echo that wouldn’t fade. The stillness around him mirrored the hollowness he felt within.
What would his life look like if he could answer “yes”? How would it feel to live truthfully, without the mask he’d been forced to wear for years? To not have to pretend—for his parents, his managers, the world? A life that wasn’t carefully choreographed by others, where he wasn’t just a product of expectations.
But the reality was much bleaker. Artham felt like a passenger in his own existence, helpless as his parents and managers dictated every move. His decisions, even the smallest ones, were never his own. He felt trapped in a cycle of appeasement, performing for others while drifting further from who he really was. There was no joy in his life—no passion in playing the roles they assigned him. Every day felt like a stage, and he was just the puppet dancing to someone else’s tune.
Inside him, there was a gaping void, an emptiness that stretched wider with each passing day. No matter how hard he tried, nothing could fill it. The applause, the praise, the constant adoration—it was all hollow. What was he missing? He had spent years wondering, searching for something that might make him feel alive. But whatever it was, it remained just beyond his reach, like a dream he could never quite grasp.
With a sigh, Artham closed the book, the question still gnawing at the edges of his mind. He checked the time—almost eleven in the morning. Another day lost to his thoughts. He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Another day filled with overthinking."
Suddenly, a familiar melody broke through the silence of the library—Chopin’s Nocturne in C Sharp Minor, drifting through the air like a haunting memory. The notes tugged at something deep within him, stirring emotions he had long since buried. He recognized it instantly. It was the same piece he had played years ago, the same one that had made him famous.
Without warning, memories crashed over him, pulling him back to a time he had tried to forget.
He was five years old, sitting at a grand piano in front of a sea of cameras and reporters. His tiny hands hovered over the keys, poised to perform. The room was alive with the flash of cameras, the excited murmurs of the audience, the buzz of anticipation. He was just a child, with wide eyes and curly hair, but he was already a sensation. His parents stood to the side, their faces beaming with pride, as they watched him prepare to play. They had pushed him to excel, praised him endlessly, and shaped him into the genius the world adored.
He remembered the feeling of the piano keys beneath his fingers, familiar and comforting. He had taught himself to play by watching others, mimicking their techniques until it became second nature. Every performance was flawless. Every note, perfect. The audience marveled at his brilliance. He could hear their applause even before he began.
But it was all an illusion.
With each press of the keys, the melody flowed from him effortlessly, but what the world saw as brilliance was nothing more than a hollow performance. Behind the calmness he showed, behind the confidence that wowed the audience, there was nothing. No excitement, no joy. Just a void. The notes meant nothing to him—just motions he had memorized, a skill perfected to meet others' expectations.
He played flawlessly, as he always did, while his parents smiled proudly from the sidelines. The audience was captivated, showering him with admiration, but he felt nothing. The truth—the ugly, undeniable truth—was that it was all a lie. A beautiful, glittering lie that crumbled to dust the moment it touched his soul. And yet, no one noticed. No one saw through the facade.
He had spent years wondering if anyone ever truly saw him, the boy behind the genius, the child behind the piano. Was he anything more to them than an object to admire? A marvel? A trophy? He looked at his parents, their expressions full of pride, but it didn’t reach him. Their love felt like an obligation, not warmth. Their praise felt empty, just like the applause that followed every performance. They loved him, he knew that, but it wasn’t enough to fill the void inside him.
Boredom became his constant companion, a shadow that clung to him, a dull ache that never left. Every achievement felt the same—lifeless, hollow, pointless. And yet, he kept performing, kept pretending, kept the lie alive for them. He wondered how long he could keep this up before it broke him. Before someone realized the truth he had been hiding for so long.
Artham snapped out of his reverie, his heart racing as he returned to the present. The book sat closed on the desk in front of him, the question still echoing in his mind. He stood abruptly, sliding the novel back onto the shelf, and left the library.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew one thing with certainty: he needed to find something real. Something that wasn’t an act or an expectation—something that could make him feel alive again.
As Artham was about to return the book to its shelf, he spotted Lisa, his homeroom teacher, pacing nervously by the same section. She was rifling through the books, muttering under her breath as she frantically moved the volumes aside. Her usually composed demeanor was unraveling before his eyes.
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"I swear I hid it here... Where did it go?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, her movements increasingly erratic.
Curiosity piqued, Artham approached her, the fantasy book still in his hands. “Hello, Ms. Lisa. Are you looking for something?” he asked, his voice polite but tinged with curiosity.
She jumped, spinning around with wide eyes, her face blanching as her gaze fell on the book he was holding. There was a brief flicker of shock in her eyes before she forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her face.
“Oh, Artham!” she stammered, clearly caught off guard. “Yes, I was... just looking for a special book.”
Artham raised an eyebrow, noting the unease in her voice and the way her hands fidgeted. A special book? He glanced down at the novel in his hand, sensing something deeper beneath her frazzled demeanor. “I guess this is it, then,” he said, holding out the book. “I didn’t expect to find something like this in the library. I didn’t know you were a fan of fantasy.”
Lisa’s forced smile wavered as she reached out and took the book from him with trembling hands. “Oh, no, no,” she said hastily. “It’s not for me. It’s for my... my son!” Her voice wavered as she concocted the excuse, her fingers tightening around the book as if it were something fragile, something she couldn’t afford to lose.
Artham almost laughed out loud. A son? Everyone knew Lisa wasn’t married, much less a mother. She hurried away, clutching the book tightly to her chest, leaving him standing there, puzzled by her erratic behavior.
She’s not just a fantasy reader. She’s a fantasy storyteller, he thought, chuckling to himself as he watched her retreat. The lie, awkward and unnecessary, lingered in the air. It was as if the book held more significance than she let on.
He was about to leave the library when a familiar voice called out his name.
“Hey, Artham!”
He turned just in time to see a blur of white and red rushing toward him. It was Julia, the class president, her bright red ribbon bouncing in her brown hair. She was always a whirlwind of energy, her cheerful smile never faltering. Today was no different. Her grin was dazzling as she skidded to a stop in front of him, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Hi, Artham! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Artham sighed inwardly, already anticipating where this conversation was headed. “What is it?” he asked, his voice flat.
Julia pulled a brightly colored flyer from her pocket and thrust it into his hand. It was an invitation to a school talent show, splashed with gaudy fonts and images of performers. Here we go, he thought, his patience already wearing thin.
“You should sign up for this talent show! You have amazing talents, Artham,” she said, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “You can master any instrument, sing any song, speak any language… You’re a prodigy! You’d win for sure! If I had half your talent, I’d enter and win every time!”
She rattled off his accomplishments with a gleam in her eye, but Artham knew better. Julia, with her wealth and connections, always had a way of digging up everyone’s secrets, and he was no exception. Her admiration felt hollow, like everyone else’s praise—a mere surface-level fascination with his abilities.
He clenched his jaw, feeling a surge of irritation rise within him. Another person who only sees the genius. Julia was like the rest of them, too busy admiring his achievements to see the person buried beneath the accolades. “No, thanks. I’m not interested,” he said coldly.
Julia’s expression faltered, her bright smile dimming into a frown. “Why not? Don’t you want to share your talents with everyone? You’re proud of what you can do, right?”
Artham’s eyes flashed with an anger he could barely contain. “Proud? No. I’m tired of showcasing my abilities. It’s monotonous. Repetitive.”
Julia recoiled as if he had struck her, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Monotonous? How can you say that? You have a rare gift, Artham—something extraordinary! You should be celebrating it, not dismissing it.”
He sighed heavily, the weight of her words pressing down on him, suffocating him. “You don’t understand, Julia. You don’t know what it’s like to be me. To have the ability to do anything but feel nothing. To be admired by everyone, but care for no one. I have no dream, no purpose. I’m just... hollow.”
Julia’s frown deepened, and her voice took on a sharper edge. “You have a duty to share your talents with the world. It’s selfish to hide away what others would kill to have. You should be grateful.”
Her words ignited something deep inside him—a fire he had kept buried for too long. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as his pulse quickened. The anger he had held back for years boiled to the surface.
“Enough!” he growled, his voice a low warning.
But Julia didn’t stop. “As class president, it’s my responsibility to showcase what our class can offer society. I do this for the greater good, not for myself. So I ask you one last time—can I write your name down?”
That was the final straw. Artham felt the dam break inside him, the flood of frustration too powerful to contain. Without thinking, he crumpled the flyer in his hand and tossed it to the ground.
“Write my name, and shove your stupid flyer up your ass!” he snapped, his voice echoing in the silent hallway.
Julia’s face turned crimson, her mouth hanging open in shock. “What the hell?! I— I don’t understand what’s gotten into you!”
Artham’s breath was ragged as he tried to reign in the anger that coursed through him. “I’m tired, Julia. Tired of people like you who think you know me. You don’t. You have no idea what it’s like to live like this. I’m sorry... but I have to go.”
Without another word, he stormed past her, his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty corridor. Julia stood frozen, her hand still outstretched as if she could somehow stop him. But she couldn’t. No one could.
“Artham, wait!” she called after him, but her voice barely registered. He was already gone, lost in a storm of emotions he couldn’t control.
His mind raced as he walked, memories of praise and expectations swirling like a whirlwind in his head. He was a prodigy, a genius, a marvel to everyone around him. But in reality, he felt like a star burning out—shining bright, but fading fast.
No one saw the truth beneath his brilliance. The trophies, the achievements, the accolades—they were empty. Everything was empty.
As he left the library behind, the weight of his brilliance pressed down on him, suffocating him. He was tired—tired of hearing the same words, the same admiration. The anger wasn’t really toward Julia, or anyone else. It was directed at himself, at the life he was forced to live.
Was there anyone who could truly see him? He wondered. Was there anyone who could make him feel something other than the numbness that had settled deep in his soul?
He clenched his fists tighter, nails biting into his skin, the pain grounding him. He was tired of repeating the same victories, tired of facing the same praise. All he saw now was a cycle of blandness and repetition.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.
His bedroom shelves were cluttered with the remnants of past triumphs—trophies, certificates, and awards that had once gleamed with pride but now gathered dust, forgotten. Artham had accomplished everything he had set out to do, but somewhere along the way, the light that once drove him forward had flickered and dimmed. What once fueled him now felt hollow, and he couldn't even recall what had once made his life vibrant. It was as though a crucial piece of his soul had gone missing, leaving an ever-present void he couldn’t fill. His life felt like a half-completed puzzle, a beautiful image with a glaring, gaping hole in the center.
As the years passed, that ambition—the hunger that once consumed him—faded into a quiet murmur. He blended into the crowd, hiding in plain sight, wasting his time on meaningless distractions, all of which failed to fill the emptiness gnawing at his insides. The accolades that had once defined him were now just reminders of a person he no longer recognized.
Since entering this school, he had lived by his own rules, a personal code he had crafted for himself and no one else. These rules were more than just guidelines—they were a way to keep himself tethered, to maintain some semblance of control in a life that felt increasingly directionless.
As he strolled down the hallway towards the cafeteria, his gaze fell on a colorless, blank wall. Its dull surface seemed to mirror his own existence—bland, static, devoid of life. He stopped for a moment, staring at it, his mind wandering. What color could I add to make it blend in with the others? Or would it be better to stand out, something unique, something real? The thought lingered, but like so many others, it slipped away, unanswered.
Maybe I’m the blank canvas, he mused, waiting for someone to paint me with meaning. Or perhaps someone had already tried, but had left him unfinished—an incomplete work of art, abandoned and forgotten. He wondered if he would ever find that person again, or if he would remain this way forever, untouched and incomplete.
“Who knows,” he muttered to himself, shrugging as he turned away from the wall. It was just another unanswered question, another fleeting thought that drifted out of reach.
Just like what he wanted to do with his final year of high school—leave it behind. The thought of what came next felt distant, like a fading horizon he wasn’t sure he cared to chase. Was there anything left worth pursuing? A goal to strive for? A person to meet? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if he had a purpose, a destiny, or if he was just trapped in an endless loop, repeating the same pointless cycles of emptiness.
He had tasted the common flavors of life—love, friendship, betrayal—but none of them had left a mark on him. The sensations had come and gone, fleeting, evaporating the moment he tried to grasp them. They were all just illusions, experiences that meant nothing. He had even encountered the rare, darker tastes—the bitter act of taking a life. No, two lives, in the same breath, at the same hour.
His chest tightened at the memory. It was supposed to have meant something. The weight of it should have changed him, left him shaken, made him feel something more than the monotony that haunted his days. But it hadn’t. Not even that had pierced the numbness. He had become a ghost of himself, floating through life, untouched by anything real.
The truth was harsh, and it gnawed at the edges of his consciousness: There was nothing left that could move him in this world.