By the time Aster reaches his building, the rain has gone full theatre—loud and punishing, like the sky itself has decided to kick him while he’s down. Water slaps against the pavement in thick, angry sheets, each splash a small, wet laugh at his expense.

  His clothes cling to him, soaked through like they’ve given up too. But it’s not the rain that weighs on him. It’s that crack inside, the one he can feel now, split right down the middle. Job gone. Money gone. Sanity? Slipping. And every step he takes feels like it’s sinking him deeper into some pit with no bottom.

  He rounds the corner to his building, and that’s when he sees it.

  Before he even gets to the door, it’s there waiting for him.

  His life, neatly dumped on the sidewalk like yesterday’s trash.

  His things—or what passes for them. Soggy cardboard boxes, clothes already turning darker as the rain seeps in, a sad little island of failure under the weak flicker of the streetlamp.

  For a second, he just stands there.

  Soaks it in.

  And it squeezes his chest, slow and steady, like a hand made of iron. He drags in a breath, and it sticks in his throat, shallow and useless.

  Yeah. He knew this was coming.

  The eviction notice has been taped to his door for weeks, bright and cheery in that passive-aggressive way landlords love. The rent stacked up like unpaid sins, and his landlady, bless her heart, stopped even pretending to listen when he asked for more time.

  So here it is. Right on schedule.

  His eyes drag over the mess. The clothes, soaked, ruined. A box half-split open, spilling out the sad debris of his existence. And for some reason, the sight of a waterlogged paperback, spine cracked and pages melting into pulp, punches him harder than all the rest.

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even feel the cold crawling up his legs anymore. His stomach gnaws at itself, but that’s old news. What’s new is this: the last thread, that pathetic little hope he’s been hoarding like a secret, has snapped.

  What’s the point?

  Really.

  What’s the damn point?

  His eyes drop to the pavement, where the streetlight turns the puddles into smears of cheap gold. The shadows blur in the rain, stretching long and thin until they look like they might snap too.

  And for a beat, Aster doesn’t know if he’s still alive. Doesn’t know if he’s here, standing on this street, or if he’s already drifted somewhere beyond where people go when they finally give up pretending they’re okay.

  This isn’t living, he thinks. It hasn’t been for a long time.

  His fingers rake through his wet hair, cold water sliding down his scalp and mixing with the sweat on his skin.

  It’s my fault, he tells himself, the way someone recites a prayer they don’t believe in.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He’s had chances. Plenty of them. And he’s screwed them up every time. Every single one.

  Maybe it started when his parents died. That was the first crack in his life. His family was wealthy, successful, and admired by the community. They had everything—that is, until they suddenly didn’t. Then the accident. Gone in an instant, leaving behind a kid who had no idea how to survive the crater they left behind.

  Then came the adoption. The woman who took him in wasn’t a mother; she was an opportunist with a pulse. The state paid her for the privilege of locking him away, cutting him off from anything resembling a future. Love? Care? Not in her budget.

  What she did have were connections—to scams, to drugs, to every bottom-feeding racket the city could offer. And Aster? He played along. Because what else do you do when the world hands you a script and dares you to try and improvise?

  He tried to get out. God knows he tried. And every time, the universe yanked him back down like gravity had a personal grudge.

  And now here he is. Evicted. Jobless. Sanity on life support. Standing in the rain with his life’s worth dumped out like a joke that’s gone on too long.

  His fists clench, nails biting into skin. But he doesn’t reach for anything.

  Why bother?

  There’s nothing left worth grabbing.

  He stands there long enough that his legs start to shake, but it isn’t the cold—it’s that old, heavy truth settling deeper into his bones.

  Nothing’s ever going to change.

  Not for him.

  Not for people like him.

  It’s not just bad luck. It’s him. Something in him broke so long ago he can’t even remember what it looked like before the cracks.

  He laughs then, a sharp, brittle sound that bounces off the wet pavement and comes back hollow. There’s no humor in it. Just bitterness, sour and thick in his throat.

  He sucks in a breath, lets it shudder out through his teeth, and closes his eyes against the rain that keeps pelting down like it’s trying to wash him off the face of the earth.

  He can almost hear it—families laughing behind closed doors, kids safe and warm, lovers whispering promises that don’t bounce like his paychecks do. That whole other world, shiny, clean, untouched by whatever rot’s been following him since birth.

  And standing here, soaked and broken, Aster has to admit he doesn’t even know if he wants to be part of it anymore.

  Maybe he never really did.

  His knees give out, and he sinks to the curb like the strings holding him up have finally snapped. The cold seeps in, deeper now, but it’s not the chill that makes him hollow. It’s the emptiness—big and yawning—stretching out inside until there’s nothing left to fill it.

  His fingers brush the wet pavement, grounding himself on something solid because the rest of him is smoke. But even that feels pointless.

  People pass by without looking. They always have. Always will.

  Maybe that’s all he is now. Not broken.

  Just… nothing.

  His head drops, shoulders caving inward as his body folds small against the world that doesn’t care if he vanishes tonight.

  The rain keeps falling. It doesn’t care. The world keeps spinning. It doesn’t care.

  And Aster?

  Yeah. He doesn’t care either. Not anymore.

  So he stays there, hunched and hollow, letting the rain scrub at the last scraps of him like it’s trying to erase a stain that never comes clean.

  Because there’s nowhere left to go.

  And nothing left to escape.