The days blurred.
Arin found himself slipping further from the world he once knew. School became background noise. His family's voices—once sharp and loud—faded into something distant, like echoes from another life.
The arcade became his safe place. The soft hum of machines, the flicker of neon lights—it felt more real than anything else. Here, he wasn't invisible. He wasn't optional. The games didn't care who his family loved more. They didn't ask for perfection.
They only asked him to keep playing.
But even the arcade had its limits. One evening, the coins in his pocket ran out faster than usual. His fingers itched for more—just one more round, one more chance to feel alive.
That night, something small but dangerous sparked in his mind. A thought he never would have dared before:
What if I just… took a little?
At home, when no one was looking, Arin slipped a small note from his mother's purse. His heart pounded so loudly it hurt. His hands shook. But he did it.
No one noticed.
No one ever did.
The next day, with shaky fingers, he fed the stolen coins to the machine. The game lit up. His breathing steadied.
For a moment, the fear disappeared. The sadness faded.
But as he walked home in the dark, the weight in his chest returned, heavier than before. Guilt pressed against his ribs, sharp and bitter. He told himself it was just this once. He told himself he had no choice.
But deep down, he knew:
Something inside him was starting to crack.