My name is Riyan Solas.
I'm seventeen.
And today…
I decided to die.
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I stood on the rooftop of my old school.
The wind felt sharp against my skin, like tiny needles pricking my face. My hair fluttered wildly around my eyes, and I had to brush it aside to see the ground below.
I leaned forward slightly, letting my toes hang just past the edge of the crumbling concrete ledge. From up here, the world felt small — cars were little metal toys, people were just dots moving aimlessly, unaware of the boy standing above them, ready to vanish.
No one would miss me.
No one ever did.
I wasn't special.
I wasn't strong.
I wasn't loved.
When I was five, a drunk driver ran a red light and stole my parents from me.
They said I was lucky to survive. That I was a "miracle." But since that day, every breath I took felt borrowed, like I wasn't supposed to still be here.
The world turned gray after they left.
Colors faded from my life. The blue sky looked dull, the green trees felt fake, the warmth of the sun felt like a cruel joke.
I was bullied for being poor, for wearing second-hand clothes that never fit right, for bringing empty lunch boxes to school.
I was ignored for being too quiet, for sitting in the back row, for never raising my hand.
Even the teachers stopped calling my name during attendance — as if they had already erased me from their minds.
I became a ghost.
The only person who ever believed in me… was my grandfather — Kairon Solas.
He was all I had left.
He worked in a metal factory, coming home every evening with oil-stained shirts and hands so rough they could sand wood.
But when he touched my head, it felt gentle. When he smiled at me, it felt like I was standing in sunlight for the first time.
> "Live your life, Riyan," he always said, his voice low but warm.
"Make friends. Laugh loud. Be more than I was."
Sometimes he would pat my shoulder and look away quickly, as if hiding tears. I didn't understand then. Now, I do. He was hoping I could live the life he never got to.
But I couldn't.
I was scared — of people, of failing, of being seen.
I kept my head down, moved through hallways like a shadow sliding along the wall. I barely spoke. I barely existed.
Then… he died too.
It was a heart attack. The doctor said it was "quick and peaceful." But it left me with a silence so loud it felt like my head would split open.
When he died, it felt like the last light in my world went out.
After that, I stopped trying. I stopped caring.
I let the days blur together, each one as empty as the last.
Until today.
I climbed the old stairs of my school, each step creaking under my weight.
I reached the rooftop — the same place I used to look at the stars with my grandfather when he visited for school festivals.
I remembered his voice echoing in the night air: "Look up, Riyan. Even if the world turns its back on you, the stars will always be there."
But tonight, the stars weren't enough.
I stepped forward.
"This is it," I whispered to myself. My voice sounded so small, almost swallowed by the wind.
"This is where it ends."
My foot shifted forward, just an inch more.
But then… I heard it.
His voice.
Soft. Warm.
Full of hope.
> "Live, Riyan."
It was so clear, as if he was standing right behind me, his hand on my shoulder like he used to do.
I froze. My whole body trembled. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
> "Live, Riyan."
Tears blurred my vision. The street below disappeared behind a wall of shimmering water in my eyes.
Something inside me cracked open.
I didn't fall forward.
I fell backward — to my knees.
My hands clutched at the cold concrete, nails scraping against the rough surface. My shoulders shook, and I felt my chest tighten painfully.
And then, after all these years of silence…
I cried.
Next: He tried to live again…
But then the sky caught fire.
And everything went black.
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