Ethan sat alone in his apartment, staring at a calendar marked with another forgotten birthday. No calls, no cards, no recognition. Family, friends, the world—they had all moved on. He was alone, with only the weight of stories that had yet to be read.
He thought of the years he had sacrificed—sleep, love, joy—pouring himself into words that had never found a home. Each missed call, each ignored message, became a small dagger to his heart. Even the candles he blew out alone seemed to flicker with pity, the shadows dancing mockingly around him.
He held a pen, the only companion that had never abandoned him, yet even it felt distant. Each word he wrote was a whisper to the void, a plea for recognition that would never come. The world had forgotten him, and he feared he might forget himself entirely. He closed his eyes, longing for warmth, for love, for any sign that his life had meaning—but found only silence.