I ironed my own shirt that night.
I could have asked for help. I could have sent it to the laundry earlier. But routine was something I controlled. The crease had to be straight. The cuffs aligned. The tie centered.
Knock. Knock.
"Sir, the car is ready," said my driver, Sebas.
You might be wondering about his name sounding so original. However, that is not his real name. I just call him that because his attitude and face resemble a typical butler named Sebas.
"I'll be there in a sec!" I replied.
I was invited to one of the award ceremonies at my academy to give a speech. This was the third one this week alone. I think it would also be the last before my well-deserved rest.
The order was comforting. My parents taught me that a man will always be judged by how he looks. What's inside doesn't really matter to people you'll only see once. So you have to always look your best.
The mirror reflected a man in his mid-thirties well-groomed, composed, respectable. The kind of face parents trusted with their children's future.
"You are really handsome, aren't you?" I told the mirror on my way out to the awarding. "Tomorrow will be my first day of rest. What should I do?"
"Congratulations, Professor," I said quietly to myself, pushing myself forward with confidence.
The title still felt heavier than my name.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from my mother.
Don't forget to eat before drinking. And call us when you're home.
I typed a quick reply.
I will.
I didn't say when. Maybe I'll visit them tomorrow. I really did miss my parents.
The venue was already lively when I arrived. Colleagues waved me over. Former students greeted me with energy that made me feel both proud and tired.
"Good evening, sir!" greeted my former student, who now worked as my assistant. She was also the first scholar I supported because she was highly intelligent and truly talented.
"Good evening. How are you?" I smiled back as I accepted the drink she handed me. This girl is nearly perfect aside for it love to alcohol
"I'm really doing well right now. There are multiple drinks here for free. How can I not be happy?" she joked, handing me another glass.
Girls should have some reservations. This is a formal party, I told myself. I really wanted to say that out loud, but I knew she'd just hand me another drink. So I simply replied, "Good for you. I'll see you around. I'll head backstage first."
"Okay, sir! Good luck! Tomorrow, Jessica, Marco, and I will visit you! The drinks are all mine!"
No. Please don't, I replied in my head as I headed toward the stage.
They had organized everything lights, banners, a short program. My name was printed in large letters across the backdrop.
I stood backstage, holding a printed copy of my speech.
It wasn't long.
Just gratitude. Acknowledgment. Professional humility.
Safe words. Nothing noteworthy. A normal speech that the audience would forget the moment they blinked.
When they called my name, applause filled the hall.
I walked to the podium. The lights were bright enough that I couldn't see faces clearly—just silhouettes and movement.
"Good evening," I began.
My voice carried steadily. Years of lecturing had trained it well.
"I'm grateful for the trust this institution has given me. Teaching has always been more than a profession. It is a responsibility."
Applause.
I thanked my colleagues. My mentors. My students.
"I hope," I continued, "that I have helped at least a few of you find clarity in your path."
They handed me a glass after the speech. Someone shouted for a toast.
"To Professor Brier!"
Glasses lifted.
I forced a smile and raised mine.
"To growth," I said.
The word lingered strangely in my mouth.
The program ended, and the atmosphere shifted from formal to festive. Music filled the hall. Laughter grew louder. Conversations blurred together.
A young guest performer was introduced—a local singer gaining popularity online. Early twenties. Self-made. The type of story people admired.
He stepped onto the small stage with nothing but a microphone and confidence.
When he sang, the room changed.
His voice wasn't perfect. It cracked slightly on the higher notes. But there was conviction in it—something raw.
The crowd responded immediately.
Phones lifted. People sang along.
I stood near the back, listening.
The melody was simple. The lyrics were direct. No complex metaphors. No layered symbolism.
And yet it worked.
"Anyone can become a singer today. Tsk." I wanted to leave. I thought there was no sense listening to someone who became famous just because they looked good.
"My elementary students can write better than this guy," I muttered to myself.
I had written songs with deeper imagery. More intricate phrasing. They were still saved somewhere on an old hard drive.
No one had heard them.
I took a drink.
Then another.
The singer finished to a roaring applause. He bowed, breathless, smiling in a way that looked earned.
"At least he really looks like he's giving his best. I guess that's a point earned," I sighed.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Not hatred.
Not even jealousy in its ugliest form.
Just a quiet realization.
He had tried.
That was the difference.
I had chosen certainty. He had chosen risk.
"I can't believe I'm thinking like this at my age," I told myself. I sighed deeply. I'll just drink until I can't stand up and drown this bitterness. "I should find those alcoholic trio so I won't get bored."
I roamed the hall and made my way to the second floor.
The music resumed, louder now. A few colleagues pulled me toward the balcony for air. I didn't resist.
The night was cool. The city lights stretched beneath us in scattered gold. From above, everything looked calm.
Someone clapped my shoulder and went back inside.
I stayed.
My glass was nearly empty. I wanted another drink, but I was too drunk to lift my hand properly. No one paid attention to me. People saw me as someone who loved to drink but couldn't handle his alcohol. This was normal.
I leaned slightly against the railing, thinking I should call Sebas to pick me up.
The thought stopped there.
A sudden pressure hit my back.
Not playful. Not accidental.
Deliberate.
My body tipped forward before my mind understood.
"Wait—wait—wait—argh!" I wanted to shout, but the words stayed trapped in my head.
I reached for the railing, but my grip slipped against the cold metal. The world tilted sharply. The balcony edge disappeared beneath my feet.
There was no time to turn. I was too drunk. I didn't think I could pull myself up. My hand slipped.
No time to see who stood behind me.
In that brief, weightless second, one truth cut through everything:
I never allowed myself to fail. I always trust how good I am. I know this world needs a person like me so I can't die yet. I still want to criticize this singer in my dummy account for his lack of imagination. I haven't visited my parents yet and say I love them. I haven't managed to pay my assistant salary yet. I haven't experienced what love is. I can't die like this
Then the ground rose to meet me.
I heard people screaming. Some of them were my former students. My mind was no longer functioning properly. But adrenaline keeps me alive and pain was relieved due to alcohol.
I tried to sit up, pushing with the remaining strength I had. Seeing how much blood I had lost and how deformed my lower body was, I lost strength and lay down again.
It was strange. People moved in slow motion.
This week has been tiring. I was too drunk.
I wanted to sleep.
Tomorrow was supposed to be my first day of rest.
Later that night, sad news was delivered to the public. Many students, teachers, and professionals mourned the death of their beloved professor.