Chapter 1: Runaway
"Maybe I was always running. From love, from people, from myself. And now that I've finally stopped… there's no one left but me."
— Unknown
Suggested Listening:Kanye West – "Runaway"
(Let the piano keys sink in. Read slow. This one's not meant to be rushed. Set it in loop)
My life has been nothing but failures.
I'm not saying that to be dramatic. I'm not writing this to impress anyone — hell, I wouldn't even be writing this at all if I had a choice. But if I have to start somewhere, it's here. With the truth.
And the truth is: I lost. At life.
I never had friends I could really count on. The few times I did — or thought I did — it always ended the same way. They'd get close, I'd let my guard down, and eventually… they'd leave. Or worse, stay just long enough to twist the knife.
Fool me once, shame on them. Fool me five or six times?
That's just pathetic.
I stopped learning. I stopped hoping. Started going through the motions instead. A quiet little cog in a grinding machine.
I was a college graduate with a job I hated, earning less than I needed, drowning in debt I couldn't keep up with. My salary evaporated within days — EMIs, rent, groceries, a few desperate loans to cover the last few mistakes. The cycle never broke. Only deepened.
Some months I couldn't even check my bank balance. I'd just close my eyes and wait for payday, knowing full well it was already gone.
And the worst part?
I didn't even try anymore. I just accepted it.
Let it all rot.
And then there was that other thing. The one I never told anyone about. The one I swore I'd never write down. The addiction.
Porn.
It wasn't just a bad habit. It was an escape hatch. A dirty, hollow coping mechanism I built my evenings around. I'd come home, toss my bag, lie on the bed, open the folder — the same 50 GB collection I'd spent years building — and fall into it. Over and over.
It was mechanical. Empty. And yet… I kept doing it.
I tried quitting. God, I really did. Once I even deleted the whole thing. Sat there, watching the files vanish, feeling this weird sense of peace… like I'd done something brave.
But the guilt crept in. The shame. The craving.
Eventually, I started rebuilding it. Quietly. Ashamed. Hating myself the entire time.
I never told anyone. I couldn't.
What would I even say?
Friday.
It was just another Friday in the mess I called my life.
The office was a blur of fake smiles and fluorescent lights. I logged in, logged out. Nobody noticed when I left. Nobody ever did.
On the walk home, I stopped at the usual liquor store.
Got myself a full bottle of whiskey. Something cheap. Something strong. Picked up some chips too, out of habit.
The guy behind the counter didn't even look at me. That's how often I came.
Back home — or whatever you'd call my box of an apartment — I shut the door behind me and didn't bother turning the lights on. Darkness was easier. Familiar.
I tossed the bag. Peeled off my office shirt. Took a quick shower.
When I came out, I pulled on an old, worn-out T-shirt. My favorite. The one with the tiny hole near the hem. Always fit just right.
Then I grabbed my phone, opened the playlist, and played the track.
Kanye West – Runaway.
The piano keys started. Slow. Mournful. Almost mocking. That loop — so simple it hurt.
I poured my first glass of whiskey.
Sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall.
And let the music fill the silence.
"And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong…"
The words hit differently when you've been quiet too long.
"You been putting up with my sh*t just way too long…"*
I drank. Slowly. Let the burn settle behind my teeth. Let the track play again. And again.
Half the bottle vanished before I even noticed. I remember swaying a little, maybe nodding my head to the beat. Maybe laughing.
Or crying.
I don't know.
No calls. No pings. No one wondering where I was.
Just me. And the song. And the whiskey.
"Let's have a toast for the douchebags…"
I raised my glass like a joke. Like some pathetic ritual.
And then…
Darkness.
Not sleep. Not quite.
Something deeper. Like sinking into a warm ocean with no bottom.
The first thing I felt when I woke up was wrong.
Everything was quiet. But not in the peaceful way.
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was wooden. Cracked. The planks warped and stained, like they'd been through years of rain. A faint smell of damp straw hung in the air, mixed with something old. Earthy.
I blinked.
Sat up slowly.
That's when I saw my hands.
Small.
Child-sized.
Soft. No calluses. No scars. Just pale skin and tiny, unfamiliar fingers.
My heart should've started racing.
But it didn't.
There was a mirror leaning on the wall, half-fogged and cracked near the edge.
I crawled over to it.
A boy stared back.
Six? Maybe seven. Messy black hair. Eyes too serious for a kid that age. A little thin. Pale.
I touched the glass.
He did too.
"…What the hell?"
I stood up — slowly. My legs felt unsteady. Like they hadn't been used in a while. The floor creaked beneath me.
I looked around the room.
Old wooden walls. A dusty shelf. Folded clothes. A cracked window letting in a strip of gray morning light.
No bulb. No wires. No fan.
No phone.
No city.
I moved to the window.
Outside — dirt road. Wooden houses. People walking by in strange outfits. Some with metal plates tied to their foreheads. A few in flak vests. Smoke rising from chimneys. No honking. No cars. Just wind and footsteps.
I blinked again.
No. No way.
This wasn't…
This wasn't Earth.
I turned back from the window. My breath caught.
What is this place?
Where am I?
Who… am I?
That thought hit like a brick.
I didn't know.
Not just the place — me.
I couldn't remember my name.
Not the old one.
Not this one.
Just… silence.
A knock at the door snapped me out of it.
It creaked open.
A man stepped in. Late thirties maybe. Slightly hunched. Wearing a dull robe and carrying a tray.
"You're awake," he said without emotion. His eyes flicked over me.
I didn't answer.
"You don't remember anything?"
I shook my head.
He sighed. "Thought so."
He set the tray down beside me.
Rice. Pickles. A bowl of steaming miso soup.
"You were out for two days. Fever. Dehydration. Whatever it was, it's over. Eat."
He didn't wait for a response. Just turned and left.
The door creaked shut.
I stared at the food for a long while. Then took a bite. Then another.
It was warm. Plain. Good.
I didn't know where I was.
I didn't know who I was.
But one thing was certain.
This wasn't my world.
And whoever I used to be… I had just run away from him.