To whoever finds this.

I doubt anyone will notice my absence, much less miss me. 

But I feel compelled to leave behind an explanation—probably just a compilation of my thoughts in a world where I was always ignored. 

Perhaps this is selfish, but then again, life itself has never granted me much kindness. 

So, if you want to read it, I'd appreciate it. If you don't want to, then just burn this paper and throw the ash somewhere.

Sometimes I wonder if even God tells me to fuck off. 

Maybe that's why He’s been silent through all this, letting me stumble, fall, and shatter into pieces. Or perhaps He’s testing me, waiting for me to prove something I can’t find within myself. 

Either way, if there's hell, I’ve surely earned my ticket. And I'll happily walk down that path.

High school was diabolical. A place teeming with its cliques, archetypes, and unwritten rules—yet I was neither player nor pawn in that social game. 

The boy gangs, the queen bees, the overachievers, the class clown… I was none of them. 

I hovered on the edges, probably even worse than the quiet guy at the back of the class. 

Have you ever tried so hard to be funny, cool, or unique, only to find out no one cares? Or had a friend who smiled and talked with you when it was just the two of you, only to vanish the moment someone "better" showed up? That was my entire existence for three years: invisible in a crowd, unwanted when seen.

Maybe it was my appearance. Short, soft around the edges, with a double chin and a face that couldn’t make the world look twice. 

Or maybe it was something deeper—an aura, a weight I carried that repelled connection. I tried to change, but no matter what I did, people seemed to wish I didn’t exist. 

Heck, maybe even incels had better chances of getting a bitch.

And then, there was home. 

Home wasn’t an escape; it was another battleground. My father, bedridden with cancer, hurled curses and objects at me as I sat watching the oxygen pump through his respirator.

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Tailbone cancer, they said. 

Two surgeries drained my mother’s savings, leaving nothing but desperation in their wake. When he finally passed, I thought maybe, just maybe, the chaos would subside. 

It didn’t.

My mother broke. Wine bottles became her companions, and our home turned into a warzone of shattered glass and screaming matches. 

By year’s end, she shipped me overseas, and that was the last I ever saw of her. An overseas relative called me months later to say she’d literally coked herself to death. 

I was sent back to my hometown to attend her funeral. 

Everybody's gaze that was fixed on me was really sharp. Social anxiety kicked in, and I couldn't even look people in their eyes the second time. 

Then after the funeral, someone gave me a note that my mother left. 

“You're bad luck.” It wrote. 

And then, I understood. 

I was the problem, after all.

I thought college would be different. It wasn’t. The faces were older, but the rejection was the same. 

I was the outsider again. No job would hire me, no peers would accept me, and my savings bled dry trying to survive. 

The loneliness, the failure—it all felt inevitable, like I was destined to fall short.

Now, at 19, I’m a college dropout squatting in the ruins of an abandoned condominium. My mother is gone. My father is gone. My dignity evaporated long ago. I am a ghost among the living, walking around like an anomaly among the sane ones.

The only safe place I’ve ever found is in my imagination. I play songs that make me feel like I’m surrounded by friends, crafting moments in my mind where laughter is genuine, watching porn and masturbating to it pretending there's a girl comforting me in bed.

It’s a lie I tell myself, but it’s the only time I smile.

And yet, even that isn’t enough anymore.

One thing I'm still proud of myself for was the fact that I lost 60000 pounds in 2 years doing nothing at all. Couldn't afford food with the amount of money I have lol.

Anyway, I’m sorry—for trying too hard to be someone I’m not, for constantly seeking validation through cheap jokes and failed attempts at being liked. 

I’ve exhausted every path to happiness and found only dead ends. 

If you’re reading this, 

I’m dead.

The man placed the pen beside the note, staring at the final full stop. The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of a dying candle. 

The rest of the room was cloaked in shadows, revealing little more than the table, his arms, and the paper beneath his hands.

His gaze drifted to the broken couch a few feet behind him. Next to it, on the floor, was a set of cutters and a cup of dextromethorphan pills. 

Hanging from the ceiling was a noose, swaying slightly in the breeze coming through the shattered window.

He took a long, slow breath and stood up, the candlelight casting uneven shadows across his face. 

He picked up the pills, downing them without hesitation, his throat burning from the lack of water. 

Tossing the empty cup aside, he stepped toward the noose, feeling the cold, rough texture of the Manila rope in his hands. 

He hesitated only for a moment, his mind numb, before slipping the loop around his neck. 

The weight of the rope pressed into his skin as he climbed onto the couch, his heart pounding in his chest, the familiar rhythm barely noticeable over the deafening silence. 

He glanced down at the note one last time, the words blurring together in his fading vision.

With a final, resigned sigh, he stepped off the couch.

His body jerked violently as the rope tightened, cutting off his air, his feet twitching in the air. 

Darkness overtook his vision, and the world grew distant.

Then, stillness.