July 9th, 2025
The clatter of trays, the hiss of hot oil, the endless barrage of orders—this was Ian Everhart's daily symphony.
Same apron, same sweat, same fake smiles from cashiers trying to squeeze charm out of their exhausted faces. The fluorescent lights buzzed above like a cruel joke, casting everything in an ugly, pale yellow that made even food look sick.
It was his sixth hour behind the grill. A sharp sting ran through his wrist every time he pressed down on the spatula.
"Yo! Kenta said we're out of spicy mayo. Can you check the back?" Mariko called out, voice strained.
Ian barely nodded and made his way through the swinging door into the walk-in freezer.
The cold slammed into him like a wall. He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the air, and leaned against the stacked boxes. For a moment… just a second… he closed his eyes and let the silence freeze him.
He wasn't crying. He never did. But sometimes, the cold helped him feel something real, something that wasn't just exhaustion and numbness.
10:42 PM – Break Time
Ian sat at the staff table in the back, picking at a cold chicken wrap with plastic gloves still on. No one sat near him. They usually didn't.
"Why don't you ever join us after work, man?" said Riku, the fry guy, as he passed.
"We always go karaoke." Riku added.
Ian shrugged. "Not really my thing."
Riku chuckled. "Right. You always got that loner vibe. Mysterious and shit."
Ian gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "More like allergic to people."
That got a laugh, but Riku was already walking away, not noticing the way Ian's smile vanished the moment his back turned.
11:37 PM – Home
His apartment wasn't just small. It was shrinking.
Just one room—a narrow futon by the corner, a foldable table, a bookshelf lined with old computer science manuals, a single potted cactus, and a PC setup on a second-hand desk. The walls were thin, and he could hear the neighbor's TV playing a cooking show through the plaster.
But the place was immaculate.
Shoes neatly placed by the door. Dishes spotless. Wires organized. Laundry folded in a crate tucked under the table. The floor was mopped. Every surface was wiped. The air smelled faintly of lavender—thanks to a cheap diffuser.
Because if his mind was chaos, then his space couldn't be.
1:12 AM – Computer On
The glow of his monitor lit the room with cold white light. He sat at the desk in a black tee and sweats, fingers resting on the mouse like they were afraid to move.
A social media tab blinked open.
He knew better.
But he clicked anyway.
Timeline:
Sora Akiyama just bought a Tesla Model X! "Dreams do come true #GodIsGood"
Keiji and Arata just signed their startup deal with a major tech investor. "20 million yen valuation, baby!"
Hitomi's bachelorette party in Bali looked like a fashion shoot. Every girl there was in bikinis, laughing in HD.
Yuto posted a story from the rooftop of a high-rise, surrounded by models, whiskey glasses, and fireworks.
Ian scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
Photos of brunches, beaches, birthdays, diamond watches, champagne glasses, luxury gym selfies, silk robes, makeup filters, private jets.
All people he once studied with. All people who once asked him for help during finals.
Now? They lived in a world of gold, and he lived in a 12-square-meter box, where the only luxury was hot water after midnight.
He stared for a long moment at a group picture: Smiling faces. Familiar eyes.
Eyes that had forgotten him.
Ian leaned back and exhaled through his nose. The pain was like swallowing glass—but not because he was jealous.
He wasn't.
It was because he used to matter in their world.
Now he was just a ghost.
Ping.
A message.
From an unknown number again....
"You didn't smile at work today. Not even once. That makes me sad."
....
....
Ian stared at the screen.
Again.
He blocked this number last time. How did it…?
He frowned. His thumb hovered over the delete button. He paused.
There was no name. No display picture.
Just that strange, too-familiar feeling like a shadow pressing against the back of his neck.
"Probably a scam," he muttered.
He deleted the message.
2:30 AM – Shower
Steam rose in the tiny bathroom, fogging the mirror. Ian stood under the hot water like it could melt his thoughts away.
He let his forehead rest against the tile.
"Do better. Be better," he whispered to himself.
He'd been repeating that for months now.
Years, maybe.
It never made things easier, but it helped him survive.
3:03 AM – In Bed
He lay awake. The fan spun in slow, lazy circles overhead.
His mind whispered the old things:
"They're doing better than you."
"You're wasting your time."
"You used to be wanted."
But Ian just pulled the blanket tighter.
"Don't break," he murmured. "They're not worth breaking for."
He turned to his side and stared at the phone screen glowing faintly beside him.
No new messages.
He closed his eyes.
Outside, Tokyo pulsed like a giant machine - but inside this little box, a boy with tired eyes held himself together in silence, piece by piece, hour by hour.
Because even if the world forgot him…
…someone hadn't.