Andres Jowhill wasn't the kind of person people noticed.
Not because he blended into crowds effortlessly, or because he deliberately avoided attention—
But because he never quite learned how to exist in a way that demanded to be seen.
He was there.
Always there.
Just never centered.
In classrooms, he sat near the middle rows—not too close to be called on often, not too far to seem disengaged.
In conversations, he listened more than he spoke—not out of politeness alone, but because words felt… heavier to him. Like once he said something, it meant something. And that weight made him hesitate.
So instead, he absorbed.
He noticed things.
Small things.
The way someone's voice would dip slightly when they were tired but didn't want to admit it.
The way a "lol" in a message sometimes didn't actually mean laughter.
The way silence between replies could say more than paragraphs ever could.
And maybe that was his problem.
He understood too much—
But never knew what to do with that understanding.
Because no one ever looked at him the same way.
He wasn't ignored.
He wasn't disliked.
He was just…
not chosen.
Not the first person someone thought of.
Not the one people waited for.
Not the one someone held onto.
And over time, he stopped expecting to be.
That's when stories became his escape.
Late at night, when the world grew quiet and the expectations of reality faded, Andres would open his phone or pick up a novel and disappear into something else.
Worlds where people like him—
Started from nothing.
Worlds where effort mattered.
Where growth was visible.
Where emotions weren't dismissed or left unanswered.
Where if someone cared…
That care was returned.
He didn't just read those stories.
He lived in them.
For those few hours each night, he wasn't just Andres Jowhill from Jamaica—
He was a swordsman.
A mage.
A wanderer.
Someone who became something.
Someone who mattered.
And then—
There was her.
It didn't start like a story.
No grand entrance.
No dramatic moment.
Just a message.
Simple.
Casual.
But it continued.
Day after day.
Night after night.
At first, it was nothing special.
Just conversations.
But over time—
Those conversations became something he looked forward to.
Then something he waited for.
Then something he needed.
He started noticing patterns.
Her typing speed.
The times she was most active.
The little habits in how she spoke.
He remembered things she casually mentioned—
Because to him, they weren't casual.
They mattered.
And slowly…
Without realizing it—
He started caring.
Not loudly.
Not boldly.
Quietly.
Deeply.
Like everything else he felt.
He didn't confess.
Didn't push.
Didn't demand anything.
He just stayed.
Because to him—
That was enough.
Or at least…
He thought it was.
Until things changed.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Replies took longer.
Messages became shorter.
The energy shifted.
At first, he told himself it was nothing.
People get busy.
People have lives.
But the pattern continued.
And Andres noticed patterns.
That was his curse.
He saw it before it fully happened.
Felt it before it was confirmed.
The distance.
Still—
He didn't say anything.
Because he didn't want to make it real.
Until one day—
It was.
A single message.
"I think we should stop talking."
No build-up.
No explanation.
No reason.
Just… an end.
Andres stared at the screen for a long time.
Long enough for the light to dim.
Long enough for the words to burn into his memory.
He reread it.
Again.
And again.
Looking for something hidden.
Something implied.
Something he could understand.
There was nothing.
"…Oh."
That was all he said.
Not because he didn't feel anything—
But because he felt too much.
And none of it had a place to go.
No anger to release.
No answers to hold onto.
Just a quiet, suffocating emptiness.
Because in the end—
He realized something.
To her…
It might not have meant as much.
And that thought hurt more than the loss itself.
Because it turned everything they had into a question.
"Was it ever real?"
That night, rain tapped softly against his window.
A steady, indifferent rhythm.
Andres lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
His phone rested beside him.
He didn't touch it again.
There was nothing left to check.
"…So that's it."
His voice sounded distant.
Like it belonged to someone else.
His eyes shifted slowly toward his desk.
Toward the novels stacked neatly there.
Bright covers.
Bold titles.
Stories of people chosen by fate.
"…Those guys always get something in the end."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"…Power."
"…A reason."
"…Someone who stays."
His fingers curled slightly against the fabric beneath him.
"…Must be nice."
The rain didn't stop.
"…I don't want this anymore."
The words came out quietly.
Naturally.
Not as a complaint—
But as a truth.
"…If there's somewhere else…"
His eyes slowly closed.
"…take me there."
Silence followed.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then—
Everything did.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
But with absence.
The weight of the world—
Vanished.
And in that quiet, empty space—
The boy who had nowhere to belong…
Disappeared.