Nathaniel's POV
It was an ordinary night in my cramped apartment, tucked away in the heart of Manila's restless cityscape. Outside, the world was hushed; my neighbors had long surrendered to sleep, leaving only the steady, low hum of air conditioners and the occasional rumble of a passing vehicle to punctuate the silence. The city seemed to hold its breath, but within the confines of my four walls, a different story was unfolding.
My unit was the only source of noise. The television blared, its garish variety show filling the room with sound I had no interest in absorbing. Flickering neon colors from the screen danced across the dim living room, but my eyes were fixed on the ceiling, vacant and lifeless. Slumped on an old sofa, my body felt like a leaden weight, my mind adrift in an empty void.
My phone pinged on the table—a sharp, invasive ding signaling a new message. I knew who it was from: another creditor, no doubt. I didn't bother to reach for it. I lacked the energy to face yet another reminder of my failures. Instead, I let the sound dissolve into the stale air.
A moment later, the phone buzzed again, followed by a soft notification chime from my chat app. I reluctantly shifted, pulling the screen into my line of sight. It was a message from Ken, one of my few online friends.
"Yo, Nat! You still awake? Don't tell me you're moping over those applications again. Come hop on the game, let's at least forget the world for a few hours."
I let out a shaky breath, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I didn't have the heart for games tonight. "Not tonight, man," I muttered to the empty room as I typed back, "Just exhausted. Maybe next time."
I tossed the phone aside. The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Slowly, I let my body slide from a sitting position to lying flat on the sofa. The cool, cracked leather pressed against my skin, and I caught the faint, musty scent of dust. This was a familiar scene—me, the darkened room, and the creeping sensation of being swallowed by the shadows. It had become my nightly ritual.
Inside, I was a storm of confusion, frustration, and self-reproach. "I'm tired of this life," I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible over the television's mindless chatter. In those moments, my thoughts weighed me down—a tangled mess of unanswered questions, unreachable dreams, and a gnawing fear that this might truly be the end of the line for me.
They say everyone needs a reason to keep going. A dream to chase, a purpose that lights the way through the dark. But when do you stop dreaming? How do you hold on when reality itself drags you down, like heavy chains shackled to your ankles?
Maybe I was being overly dramatic. I didn't used to think this way. But the truth is, months of relentless failure and misfortune had carved this bitterness into me. It all began when I tried to change my life. I thought change would bring light; instead, everything spiraled into chaos, leaving me trapped in a darkness I couldn't escape.
My name is Nathaniel Muntingbato. I'm 25, a comic artist, an otaku, and—by most people's standards—a NEET. Beyond my art, I have no qualities worth boasting about. For years, I've been content to retreat into the world of my drawings, where I hold the reins, where every line has meaning.
As a manga artist, my earnings are barely enough to survive. I've always known this, and I've grudgingly accepted that I need a "real" job. Drawing matters to me; I believe you have to love what you do to make life worthwhile. But what you love isn't always what you're supposed to do. So, with a heavy heart, I forced myself to set aside my pen and search for work.
I started applying, clinging to the hope that something would change. But I had no idea what kind of job actually suited me. All I knew was how to draw, and that wasn't enough. I took a leap of faith, gambling without a plan, because I needed money—a way to stay afloat.
Fate, however, seemed to have other plans. Every application, every interview, ended in rejection.
"Mr. Muntingbato, we're looking for someone with more... professional corporate experience," a recruiter had told me just yesterday, their voice crisp and dismissive. I could still hear the tone of it in my head. "Your portfolio is interesting, but it doesn't align with our current needs."
"I understand," I had replied, bowing my head and backing away. "Thank you for your time."
Back in the present, the memory burned. No matter how much I wanted to prove myself, they wouldn't give me a chance.
I knew I couldn't give up, that I had to stay positive. But each day I returned home defeated, I felt cracks forming inside me. It was exhausting. It was suffocating.
Connecting with others is hard. I hate to admit it, but I feel so inadequate. Sometimes, I wonder if this is all I'll ever be. Failing to achieve your dreams, abandoning the things you love, and feeling utterly alone—I think that's the truest form of defeat. I didn't choose this. I don't want this to be my fate.
Like the days before, I returned to my apartment before dusk, carrying the weight of another rejection. In the dimness of my room, I waited for the day to end, trapped in an endless loop of hope and heartbreak. There was nothing I could do but try to stay strong, even as I felt myself crumbling.
But that night, as I drowned in my sorrow, I didn't notice the pair of eyes watching me from beyond my window. A presence, a being, that would alter my life in ways I never imagined—ways both strange and maddening.
I'm Nathaniel, an ordinary man from an ordinary family, living in an ordinary town. So ordinary, in fact, that I felt no spark of excitement in my life. To cope, I escaped into the world of anime and art.
Since childhood, my parents always criticized my drawing. "Nathaniel, when are you going to stop doodling and pick up a real book?" my mother would ask, her voice laced with disappointment.
"I'm practicing, Ma," I'd mumble back, shrinking into my chair.
"Practicing for what? You can't eat sketches," she'd sigh.
I wasn't a rebellious kid, but I think I just lost interest in the world because everything felt so painfully normal. As a result, I gradually withdrew. I chose to lock myself in my room, alone, sketching in a quiet corner. That's where I felt at ease. That's where no one judged me. But in doing so, I realized I was drifting further from the people around me. I had no friends to confide in.
Now, I had decided to change. I tried to face reality, to step out of my comfort zone and be brave. I thought change would add color to my life. But change isn't always kind.
Everything shifted when I started living on my own. I told myself I needed to prove I could survive without relying on anyone. But I took a risk I wasn't ready for. I'm an introvert, and even as a child, I struggled to connect. So, I turned to gaming, watching anime, and reading manga instead.
I became obsessed with that world. I collected merchandise—figurines, posters, anything tied to my favorite series. It was my hobby, my shield against the daily grind.
Thankfully, I met friends online. Most of them were like me—people escaping their realities. Anime became our weapon against a complicated, tedious existence. But even with online friends to talk to, something still felt missing.
The truth remains: I'm still alone in my darkened room. Just me, with no one else, and when I turn off my computer, a deafening silence envelops me.