Jake woke up before the alarm because the alarm had stopped working two months ago.
The room was still dark, not because it was early — but because the bulb had burned out and he hadn't replaced it. Electricity was expensive. Darkness was free.
His mattress had collapsed inward like it had finally given up on pretending to be useful, its springs poking his back in quiet accusation. The ceiling above him carried a spiderweb crack that had been growing every year. Jake had started measuring time by it.
Another centimeter today.
He sat up slowly, waiting for the dizziness to fade. Hunger did that now — made his head light, as if the world was already rehearsing for the day he wouldn't stand up again.
His phone lay beside him, screen fractured, the lock button taped into place. No notifications. No calls. No messages asking where he was or whether he was alive.
He didn't check the time.
He didn't need to.
He already knew he was late for something that no longer existed.
Jake pulled on the same grey hoodie he wore every day. The elbows were frayed, the zipper broken, the fabric permanently holding the smell of cheap detergent and failure. He owned three shirts. All of them had stories. None of them were good.
The mirror in the bathroom had a long crack splitting his face in two. He preferred it this way. It made it harder to recognize himself.
Twenty-one. Orphan. Degree incomplete. Resume unread. Rent paid by loans that laughed silently in his bank account every time he opened the app.
He brushed his teeth with water alone. The toothpaste had run out yesterday, and the shop downstairs had started pretending not to see him.
When he stepped outside, the hallway was already loud with life he didn't belong to. Couples arguing. Kids running late for school. A neighbor laughing on the phone about promotions and bonuses.
Jake pulled his hood lower.
By the time he reached the street, the sun had finally come up — bright, arrogant, unapologetic. It touched everything except him.
He took out his folded list of places to visit today.
Security guard – already rejected.Call center – no callback.Warehouse loader – "We'll let you know."
He stared at the paper until the letters blurred.
Not angry. Not sad.
Just tired of being the man people forget five seconds after meeting.
Jake started walking.
He didn't know it yet, but this was the last normal morning he would ever have.
And it wasn't even worth remembering.