If I may, can I pose an interesting question?
"What's the point of continuing to live if there's nothing in your life to look forward to?"
Don't get me wrong — I'm not some depressed soul with suicidal thoughts. I'm not asking this because I'm at the end of my rope. But even so, I can't help but wonder: why do people keep living, knowing full well how meaningless their lives truly are?
My life has always been devoid of colour. No red, no blue, no yellow — just grey. A dull, endless stretch of monotony. Whenever I walk down the streets, I see others just like me. People who live in the same grey world. Their lifeless eyes hide behind glasses. Their tired expressions are masked by fake smiles. Their lives, drained of joy, are wrapped in layers of denial. No matter how well they try to hide it, I can see through it all.
They're unsatisfied. They're tired. And yet, they continue to live.
You know why , because there is something they have been keep holding onto and you know what it is.
It's hope,hope is something a man dream's of while keeping his eyes open.
Hope — the one thing they still hold onto. A fragile, flickering illusion that maybe, just maybe, their colourless life will one day be filled with vibrant hues. That all the pain they've endured, all the efforts they've made, will someday be recognized. That love, happiness, success — all of it — will come to them, even if late.
But no one dares to tell them the truth:
Hope is a beautiful lie.
In this hopeless world, there is no salvation. They mistake their sweet dreams for a future that doesn't exist. And they won't wake up from their delusions until death knocks gently on their door.
Hope is a sweet poison — addictive, numbing, and ultimately fatal. Once you've had a taste, you keep drinking it, begging for more. And no rehab can cure you.
I don't even pity them. Because, deep down, I know... I was once one of them.
The only difference is — I've run out of hope.
I no longer believe.
They, despite living in agony, manage to keep their hands clean. But me? I crossed the line long ago. I am a sinner. A killer. A murderer. My hands are stained with deep crimson, soaked in the blood of those I've killed — some guilty, some innocent. Not that it makes a difference. A crime is a crime, and I've committed more than I can count.
And yet, I still walk the streets like a regular citizen. No records. No charges. No one hunts me. It's as if I don't exist at all. As if my sins are invisible. Forgotten.
I carry all my crimes with me and still keep living. Why? I don't even know anymore. Death, at this point, would be a mercy.
I thought I would continue like this — a wandering soul, lost in the fog of his own misery.
Until she came into my life.
She appeared like a well-timed magic trick, cast by a master magician waiting for the perfect moment to awe the audience.
When I was drowning in pitch-black darkness, she was my light. At first, she annoyed me. Always smiling, always talking. But over time, I found comfort in her presence. Slowly, her voice became my anchor, her warmth my shield.
And then... I found myself smiling. Laughing, even — at her stupid jokes, her ridiculous antics. I thought I had lost those feelings long ago. But she brought them back.
Sometimes, I'd catch myself wondering — Do I deserve this? Am I even allowed to be happy? To be loved? To be forgiven for everything I've done?
But I knew... those questions would never be answered. So instead, I chose to savour each moment with her. To treat those fleeting days of happiness as if they were blessings from a merciful god.
---
They say, if you want someone to understand true despair, first let them taste a bit of happiness.
And that's exactly what happened.
Just when I started to believe...
Just when I thought I could be accepted for who I truly was...
Despair arrived.
It wasn't a slow fall. It came all at once — swift, sharp, and unexpected.
A betrayal.
From the one person I never thought capable of it.
You should never take love for granted. It's fragile. And it doesn't last forever.
But I never imagined that love would be the reason for my death.
There she stood — the woman who once held me with such warmth — now gripping a bloody knife, its blade stained in my blood. Her eyes, which once sparkled with affection, stared at me with cold, unfeeling detachment.
I never imagined that someone so warm could possess such a chilling darkness. One capable of freezing me to my very soul.
She didn't speak. She just stared — judging, silent.
Then, without a word, she walked toward me. I thought she was going to end it — put me out of my misery.
But she didn't.
She just passed by, leaving me behind on the cold, empty ground...
...to bleed to death.
It's ironic, isn't it?
When I begged for death, it ignored me. But now that I finally found something worth living for — now that I had the courage to hope again — death returned like a jealous lover.
And here I lie, my body torn, blood seeping from every wound. My breaths grow weaker, my vision blurs, and the world fades around me.
In my final moments, I can only think of her.
All the good times. All the pain. Every single memory — they're all filled with her.
Who am I?
No one special. Just a nameless soul who finds himself dying on a cold floor, forgotten and alone.
If I had just a bit more time... maybe I would've shared my story. Maybe I would've told you everything.
But now, all I feel is cold.
My ears ring.
The world turns silent.
My sight fades.
And finally — as the darkness embraces me — I feel warmth, just for a moment, before it all disappears.