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The boy never had been much of anything. Not the one remembered. Never the one noticed. He was simply there to exist. To fill out the crowd. To be another face to pass by and forget. He spent his days labouring away at unimportant work in the isolated void of a cubicle, illuminated by the darkness of cheap fluorescent bulbs. Work possible for all, done only by those who slip through the cracks of society and fall into the hole that is worthlessness. It was not honourable work in the slightest. But it was work none the less. Work that could put a roof above his head and sometimes just enough food to pass another week by. Then the pink slip arrived, silent as a blade to his ribs, and the tiny edifice he had erected around his hollowness disintegrated.

The landlord gave him the rest of the fortnight. And so he stood, surrounded by boxes half filled with empty bills and the few things that could attest to him having lived anywhere at all, taking in one last glance at the dark cube that was once the only thing he could call home. With a heavy heart and an uncertain future, he began his search for a new abode, if only temporary. He eventually found a place sorry enough that he could afford, although just barely. The new apartment was smaller; walls yellowed from a background of smoke and sorrow. Room 27. The kind of room no one selects, only winds up in.

He didn’t cry. Couldn’t really. The cold touch of emotion had escaped his grasp for a rather long couple of years. He simply spent his days lying on a cold floor, counting cracks in a leaky ceiling. His boxes still sat in anticipation, waiting to populate the new abode yet the boy still stayed on the floor. To open the boxes would be to face and accept facts that he simply had no power to handle.

Three nights after that, he made up his mind. The rope cost him little in a hardware shop with a clerk who could not look him in the eye. He coiled it, pulled and tested it. At midnight he stood on the chair, his feet bare, facing the somewhat peeled off wallpaper. The air was hot and heavy, yet he was shaking. The boy murmured something–a apology, maybe, though there was no one around to hear it.

When he kicked the chair, the world contracted into the suffocating hold around his neck. Darkness wrapped around. His final thought was about how still it all was at last.

And yet, the peace he awaited did not arrive. The rope snapped, as if it had been cut with a rather sharp knife. His body crumpled to the ground and the boy felt the raw pain of oxygen flowing back into a pipe almost shattered, his lungs greedily taking in as much air as they could.

He raised his head.

She remained there. Pale, impossibly pale, as if she were made of moonlight. Her hair cascaded in strands that moved though no breeze breathed. Eyes deep and mournful, yet gentle. She did not speak to start with, only inclining her head, regarding him.

“Who–” His voice cracked. “Who are you?”

The girl dropped to her knees, fingers tracing his cheek, though he could feel nothing. Her mouth formed the words: I too once live here.

The boy gazed. The rope was at his side, its end worn threadbare as if cut by a knife. His lungs continued to struggle for breath. But standing in front of her, the aching loneliness abated, ever so slightly, like a crack in a stifling room.

Return she did, over days. Always in the evenings, when shadows stretched out across the mildew-rippled carpet. She told him things little by little, only pieces: her name, once, though he could not be certain he heard her correctly; how she too had become weary of the world; how the rope had been her friend long before it was his.

“I didn’t think anyone could ever get it,” he whispered to her one evening. His voice was creaky, burdensome.

She smiled, tenuous and slight. “I understand.”

They sat together in silence, each evening. She listened, and the boy found himself talking: of dust-scented childhood rooms, of the years of invisibility in school, of his mother’s scathing words and his father’s silence. He talked of the day he lost his job, of how the city seemed to open wide and devour him. He told her things he had never even known himself.

And she–she just was. She occupied the room, not with laughter or noise, but with being. And for the first time, he did not feel like the last human being on earth.

Love, if it is love, crept in quietly. He did not dare to touch her; his hand always seemed to pass right through. But he sensed it nonetheless: in the way her eyes would rest on him, in the way silence from her was more comforting than any human being had ever said before. He started to anticipate the twilight, when she would show up and sit next to him as if she had not departed at all.

The boy came to life, sort of. He ate, though not much. He opened the window to have air move in. Once, he even laughed, surprised at the unfamiliar sound.

But the girl changed. The more he smiled, the more transparent she became. He caught it one night–the outline of the wallpaper moving behind her arm.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked, with panic clogging his throat.

Her smile was more sorrowful than ever. “You’ve taken something away from me that I thought I lost. Being with you here… I don’t hurt anymore. My soul is lighter.”

He shook his head. “No. Don’t do this. You can’t leave me.”

Her hand brushed against his cheek. “That’s the thing about love. Sometimes it’s not supposed to linger. Sometimes it sets us free.”

He pleaded, begged, but every evening she faded away, her voice weaker. Until on a morning when the first light of dawn caught the broken windowpane, she whispered: Thank you.

And she was gone. The room was empty once more.

For three days the boy did not stir. He was in the corner of the room, knees tucked up to his chest, gazing at the wall as though she would emerge from it again. But no matter how patiently he waited, only shadows appeared.

The loneliness came back, heavier than ever, weighing him down. He had known companionship, warmth, love almost–and it was taken away from him, leaving him emptier than he had ever felt.

On the seventh night, he discovered the rope once more. He bound it with care, discipline, his hands firm now. There was no shaking, no faltering. Only an enormous silence.

He stood on the chair. For an instant he half-hoped she would come, would rescue him once more. But the air remained empty. The room remained empty.

He closed his eyes.

The chair teetered.

And this time, there was no hand to save him.

I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece of mine. I had written this half-heartedly in October 2025, at a time when my writing skills were still developing. I would make a lot of changes if I were to write this now, especially the ending, and yet despite that, it still managed to win silver in an international writing competition. This, of course, was quite surprising, but I’m not exactly the best judge of things like that. I hope that, upon reading it, you will find it worthy of that recognition. You may view the official results for yourself by scrolling down to the Senior category at the following link: https://storywritingcompetition.com/result/