Earth, 31 December 2022
The night sky glittered with stars, wrapped around a solemn moon that watched silently from above. The year stood on its last breath, and so did he.
William stepped out of the office building with heavy feet, as if gravity itself wanted to pull him down. He didn't resist. His back slouched under the weight of unseen burdens, hoodie half-zipped, unshaven face dull, eyes hollow — cold and lifeless like frozen glass.
The world was counting minutes to midnight, but for him, time had already stopped.
He walked to his bike, parked near the flickering streetlamp. Its engine hadn't felt warmth in days, just like the man who rode it. He sat down slowly, as if dragging a part of himself along with the motion. From the left pocket of his old denim jeans, he pulled out a half-empty flask.
No hesitation.
One long pull.
The whisky burned like truth.
"Bottom's up," he muttered under his breath, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
He zipped up the hoodie and put on his helmet. The engine started — a low growl — but the bike didn't move. His hand lingered on the clutch, frozen in place.
The memories came crashing down like rain.
He remembered Astar.
The girl with dreams in her eyes and hope in her smile.
The girl he met in college, who once said:
"Money does not matter, William. It's the person that matters."
He clung to those words like a vow.
He remembered helping her prepare for her exams, paying for her coaching when she couldn't, hiding his own pain so she wouldn't lose focus. The way he lied — not to deceive her, but to shield her.
The nights they sat together in silence, speaking with touches, tears, and soft dreams of a better life.
He remembered the day she passed — how proud he felt.
But then, the shift.
The job interviews. The offers. The celebrations he smiled through, despite the growing distance.
And then came the truth she wasn't supposed to discover — he had been jobless for months.
She didn't understand.
She didn't want to.
Astar (voice flat on the last call):
"I earn 25,000 a month now. Why would I stay with someone who earns less?"
The screen had gone black. But his world had already darkened.
He tried. He applied for jobs. He begged fate for one more shot — not at success, but at her. He wanted to match her. Deserve her.
But the more he tried to hold on, the further she slipped away.
He became a stranger in the mirror. A loser. A burden.
Just someone who once helped her fly — and was now left behind.
A chill swept through the street. His gloved hand twisted the throttle.
First gear.
The wheels began to move.
So did the end.
Tears stung his eyes.
Maybe it was the wind.
Maybe not.
His voice cracked as he whispered into the helmet:
"I don't need to see the sunlight tomorrow."
And then — laughter erupted from the nearby lane. Fireworks lit up the sky in golden bursts.
A countdown echoed through the neighbourhood.
"THREE... TWO... ONE...!!"
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!"
A scream of joy.
A wish for a beginning.
And then — a flash of white headlights.
The sound of metal twisting.
The bike skidded across the road.
A crash.
People screaming.
Footsteps running.
The sky, now lit with fireworks, watched as William's body lay motionless under its brief celebration.
Blood pooled across the street like spilled ink over a broken poem.
Some called it an accident.
Others whispered, was it really?
One question floated in the air, unanswered — chilling.
(A crash noise and people screams—
Light goes out on all the dreams.
On the street a body lies—
Is it an accident or a type of murder,
The question ARISE.)