Tick! Tick!
The alarm clock ticked impatiently, its rhythm growing faster until it finally struck the destined hour. A shrill ring followed, announcing the arrival of another unwanted morning.
"Tch."
Clicking my tongue, I rolled over, burying half my face into the pillow. Maybe if I ignored it long enough, it'd stop on its own.
But did it stop?
Of course not.
The damn thing kept screaming like it had a personal grudge against me. I groaned, dragging a hand across my face before finally giving in and slamming my palm down on the clock. Silence at last.
I stayed there for a few seconds, staring blankly at the ceiling as the faint light of dawn crept through the curtains. My body screamed for more sleep, but my mind refused to drift back under.
"Another day in paradise," I muttered dryly.
The room around me looked as lifeless as I felt. Some clothes were scattered over the chair and floor in a disorderly mess, empty energy drink cans on the desk, and a pile of books I'd been meaning to read for months. A sigh escaped my lips as I finally swung my legs off the bed, the cold floor sending a jolt up my spine.
"Guess there's no running away from it," I said to no one in particular.
After all, no matter how much I tried to delay it, morning always came.
Speaking of which...
Remembering something, I reached for my smartphone on the bedside table and flicked it on. The dim screen lit up my face as my bleary eyes adjusted to the glow. Then I saw the date displayed clearly at the top of the screen.
March 14th.
Three months. It had already been three damn months since that night.
I let the phone drop onto the bed beside me and rubbed my temples.
Time was supposed to heal things, wasn't it? That's what people always said. But whoever came up with that line clearly hadn't lost everything overnight.
Three months since the accident.
Three months since the funeral.
Three months since the world decided to keep moving like nothing had happened.
Or was it accurate to say that my time stopped moving?
I hadn't gone to class since the day I got the call. At first, I told myself I just needed a few days to pull myself together. Then those few days turned into weeks. Weeks quietly slipped into months. And now, here I was, three months later, still stuck in the same loop of doing nothing.
If I kept this up, repeating the year was inevitable.
Ms. Victoria had already sat me down the other night to talk about it.
"You can't keep running from the future," she'd said in that calm, measured tone of hers.
Easy for her to say.
But what kind of future is there for someone like me?
It wasn't that I didn't understand her. I really did. I knew what she was trying to say, and deep down, I even agreed with her. We were barely holding things together as it was. Victoria was doing everything she could, but she wasn't getting any younger. Eventually, she wouldn't be able to carry all that weight alone.
And when that time came, someone would have to step up.
That "someone" was supposed to be me, the so-called man of the house.
But I wasn't ready. Not mentally, not emotionally, not in any way that mattered. The truth was, I didn't even know where to start.
Still, waiting for a miracle or for someone to swoop in and save us would be even more pathetic.
"Guess it can't be helped."
Letting out a resigned sigh, I finally stood up from the bed and trudged toward the bathroom. The floorboards creaked under my feet, and the cold air brushed against my skin like a silent reprimand for sleeping too long.
I flipped on the light switch.
The sudden brightness stung my eyes, forcing me to squint as I stepped inside. The mirror greeted me with a reflection that looked more like a ghost than a person. Pale skin, dark circles, and hair that could only be described as a lost cause.
"Wow. What a fine specimen of human misery."
I turned the tap and splashed cold water on my face. The shock helped a little, enough to shake off the morning daze. For a few seconds, I just stood there, palms pressed against the sink, watching droplets slide down the drain.
This was my routine now — wake up, stare at the mess in the mirror, pretend I'm okay, repeat.
As the water dripped from my chin, I caught sight of the small photo frame sitting on the edge of the counter. It had been there since before the accident.
A picture of my father and me at the beach.
He was smiling. I wasn't.
Back then, I thought he was being annoying by dragging me outside when all I wanted was to stay home and play games. But now, I'd give anything to hear that same annoying voice again.
I reached out, brushing my thumb across the surface of the frame.
"Morning, old man."
As expected, there was no reply. Just silence staring back at me from behind the glass. Still, somehow, the words made it a little easier to breathe like I could pretend, just for a moment, that he was still around to hear them.
A faint smile tugged at my lips before fading as quickly as it came.
"Alright. No more messing around."
"He" would probably be disappointed if he saw me sulking like this. I didn't want Dad to see me looking so pathetic.
With that thought, a faint sense of resolve settled in. It wasn't much, but it was enough to move me.
Determined to start the day properly, I took a cold shower and began preparing for school.
When I finally stepped out, I felt half-awake and half-hollow. My reflection in the mirror looked the same as before, just a little less miserable.
"That'll have to do."
Throwing on something casual, I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped out of my room. The apartment was quiet, as always. Ms. Victoria had already left for work. She usually did before sunrise. The faint smell of sweet toast still lingered in the air, proof of her usual morning kindness.
Then my eyebrow twitched.
Rather than the comforting scent of food, it was someone's presence that soured my mood.
Sitting on one of the dining chairs was a slender young girl with dark brown eyes and a perpetually detached expression. Her short, dyed red hair was neatly parted to the side, giving her an oddly mature look for her age. She wore a cropped black hoodie and bright red sweatpants, her bare feet tapping lazily against the floor.
Ashley West, my so-called former step-sister. Not that the title meant much anymore.
She wasn't exactly the affectionate "family" type. In fact, she could give a glacier a run for its money. Even now, she didn't so much as glance in my direction, completely absorbed in her food and whatever music she was listening to.
Most people would probably feel offended being ignored so blatantly, but I was long past that.
This was normal for us.
We didn't talk. We didn't argue. We just… existed in the same space, pretending the other didn't.
Both of us disliked each other, though neither bothered to say it out loud.
She was free to do whatever she wanted, as long as it didn't involve me and the same applied vice versa. Honestly, I couldn't have asked for a better arrangement.
There was no point in exchanging meaningless greetings.
Without giving her much attention, I grabbed a slice of toast from the counter and made my way to the door — unaware that this would be the last ordinary morning I would ever have.