I was cleaning out my parents’ attic last month after my dad passed. Most of it was junk—old tax returns, broken Christmas lights, a box of my childhood drawings that somehow survived three moves.

Then I found a small wooden box I didn’t recognize. Inside was a single envelope, yellowed and sealed with wax. On the front, in neat cursive:

**To Jason
To be opened on October 12, 2026**

That was yesterday.

My hands were shaking when I opened it. The paper inside was folded carefully. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was mine. Not how I write now—how I wrote when I was 17.

The letter said:

> If you’re reading this, it means you made it.
> I know things feel heavy right now. Dad’s gone. The house is too quiet. You’re wondering if any of this is worth it.
> I’m writing this the night before I leave for college. Mom and Dad think I’m packing. I’m not. I’m sitting on the roof outside my window, looking at the same stars you’ll probably ignore tonight.
> You’re going to make some stupid decisions in the next few years. You’re going to lose people. You’re going to feel like the world is moving on without you.
> But listen to me carefully:
> The night you almost quit everything—when you were 24 and sitting in that parking lot outside the hospital—don’t. Go back inside. Hold her hand one more time.
> The job you’re going to hate for three years? Stay until the project finishes. The person who replaces you will take credit, but the experience will save you later.
> And when you meet the woman with the red scarf on the train in Chicago, talk to her. Even if your stop is next. Especially if your stop is next.
> I can’t tell you everything. Some things you have to live.
> But I can tell you this:
> You’re going to be okay.
> Not perfect. Not fixed. Just… okay. And that’s enough.
> P.S. There’s a second letter. Look behind the insulation near the chimney. Don’t open it until you’re 50. Trust me.

I sat there on the dusty floor for a long time.

Because every single thing in that letter had already happened.

The hospital parking lot. The job. The woman with the red scarf—who’s currently asleep next to me.

I don’t know how 17-year-old me knew. I don’t remember writing it. I don’t remember sealing it. I don’t remember hiding a second letter.

But when I reached behind the insulation near the chimney, my fingers closed around another envelope.

Same handwriting.

Same wax seal.

Addressed to me.

To be opened on my 50th birthday.

I haven’t opened it.

Some part of me is terrified it will say something I haven’t lived yet.

And some part of me is terrified it won’t.

That’s the part that keeps replaying in my head, like a scene I’d cut if I could edit my own life. There was no build‑up, no grand moment, no music swelling in the background. Just a dimly lit room, a window that wouldn’t fully close, and you.

You were leaning against the edge of the table, fingers tracing the rim of a glass you weren’t really drinking from.

It was pretty late, but not late enough to justify the things we both were thinking and not saying. The kind of hour where the city outside is still half‑awake, and tired.

You said something. I don’t even remember what it was. A joke, maybe. Something about how you always manage to ruin your own good days. You laughed, but it was that laugh you do when you’re trying to make something sound lighter than it feels.

And I looked at you.

Not the way I usually do, not the casual, practiced glance of someone who’s used to pretending they’re not constantly taking mental pictures. I really looked. At the way your shoulders slouched just a little when you thought no one was paying attention. At the faint line between your eyebrows that only shows up when you’re tired. At the way your hand tightened around the glass when you mentioned “good days”, like the phrase itself was fragile.

Hell, I’m not even the type who shares his feelings easily. But something about the way you stood there, half in the light, half in the shadow, made those words come out of my mouth before I could catch it.

Like a breath held for far too long.

And then it just slipped.

I love you.

Two words. Quiet. Almost conversational. Like I was commenting on the weather. Maybe it was just a truth that had been sitting, for far too long, deep inside my chest and finally found a crack to escape through.

You froze. Your eyes met mine, and for a second I thought I saw everything.. fear, anger, surprise, tenderness, all layered on top of each other like badly hidden secrets. But it passed so quickly, I could have imagined it.

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was.. ordinary. Not with fear, or joy, or anything I could name. Yet, life went on, as if I hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the middle of the room. Just stillness. Stillness so sharp, it felt like the room inhaled, but forgot to exhale.

And then you looked at me.

That look. God. Like lightning.. bright for a second, then gone, leaving the air heavier than before. A look that didn’t trigger a “yes” or a “no,” but rather something far more complicated.

You didn’t say my name. You didn’t say “what?” or “say it again”. You just looked at me and then your eyes softened in a way that hurt more than if you’d shouted.

You didn’t say the words, but I heard them anyway. You were protecting something.. Not from me, but from what loving me might do to the fragile balance you’d carved out of your past.

“Don’t.” you said finally.

Just that. One word. Barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t “don’t love me.” It wasn’t “don’t say that.” It felt as if it was something heavier, something that carried years behind it.

There’s a particular kind of humiliation that comes with saying something true and watching it land like a mistake. I could feel the heat rising in my face, the instinctive urge to backpedal, to laugh it off, to say “Relax, I didn’t mean it like that” ..even though I did, exactly like that.

I didn’t answer. I tried to, then stopped. Lying would have been worse.

You put your glass down, carefully, like you were afraid of making any sudden movements that might shatter the moment into something unfixable.

“You can’t just say things like that”, you murmured.

“Like what?” I asked, even though I knew.

“Like that,”, you said. “Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t.. change things.”

I wanted to tell you that it didn’t have to change anything. That we could pretend I never said it. That we could rewind, go back to the version of us that lived in the safe zone between almost and never. But the truth was, it had already changed everything.. for me, at least. The word was out. It had a shape now. A weight. It was no longer something I could deny, or hide behind sarcasm.

“I didn’t say it like it’s nothing,” I replied quietly. “I said it because it’s.. there. Whether I say it or not.”

You flinched at that, just barely. A tiny movement, but I caught it.

“Don’t do this..”, you said. “Please.”

There was a crack in your voice on that last word. Not big, not obvious, but enough. Enough to tell me that this wasn’t about me being ridiculous, or dramatic. This was about you trying to hold together something inside you that had already been broken once, maybe more than once.

“What am I doing?”, I asked, even though I could feel the answer hanging in the air between us.

You hesitated, then looked up again. Your eyes were glossy, but not with tears.. I think it was restraint.

“You’re walking into a room that isn’t yours”, you said slowly. “With your shoes on. That’s what it feels like.”

The metaphor hit harder than any direct rejection could have.

Like I’d walked into a room that wasn’t mine, tracking mud over memories you kept polished and untouched. I pictured it instantly: a room, small but carefully arranged. Sunlight coming in through sheer curtains. A bed made just so. Books stacked in neat piles. Some vinyl on the shelves. A mug on the nightstand. A space that doesn’t look like much to anyone else, but to the person who lives there, it’s everything.

It’s safety. It’s proof that they survived the chaos outside yet another day. And then here I am, barging in, uninvited, leaving my footprints on the floor. And suddenly I felt like an intruder.

“You think my love is dirt”, I said before I could stop myself.

Your eyes widened. “No. That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what it feels like.. Like I’m contaminating you or something.”

“You’re not… dirty. It’s not that. It’s just…….”, you broke off, searching for words.

“There were times in my life that were good. Really good. And they’re gone now. They’re not coming back. All I have left of them are the memories. And those are.. clean. Untouched. They’re mine. The only thing that no one can mess with.”

You paused, whilst your fingers were tracing the condensation ring your glass had left on the table.

“When you say things like “I love you”, it feels like you’re trying to step into that space. Into those hours. Like you want to be part of them. And you can’t. You weren’t there. You don’t belong in those moments. And I’m scared that if I let you in now, you’ll start rewriting everything. Even the past.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. How do you argue with someone’s ghosts? How do you compete with a version of happiness that’s already been lived, already been lost, already been polished into something almost sacred?

“I’m not trying to replace anything” I said, softly. “I’m not asking to be part of your past.”

“Yeah,” you said, “but love doesn’t stay in the present, does it? It spreads. It wants to touch everything. It wants to claim things. That’s what scares me.”

You weren’t angry. That was the worst part. If you’d been angry, I could have defended myself. If you’d laughed, I could have pretended I was joking. If you’d cried, I could have held you.

You were calm. Too calm. Like someone who has already had this conversation in their head a hundred times and knows exactly where it leads.

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked. “Pretend I don’t feel it?”

You looked at me for a long moment. Really looked. And I could see the conflict there, the push and pull between wanting to be fair to me and wanting to protect yourself.

“I want you to be careful with what you say,” you replied. “Because I can’t unhear it. And I can’t give you what you think that word deserves.”

There it was. Not a door slammed in my face, but a hand gently held up… firm.

I nodded, even though every part of me wanted to argue. To say that I wasn’t asking for anything. That I didn’t need a promise, or a label, or a future. That I just needed you to know.

But that would have been a lie. Love always asks for something, even when it pretends it doesn’t. It asks to be seen. To be acknowledged. To be allowed to exist without being treated like a mistake.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, in my fingertips, in my eyes.

“I’m not going to take it back,” I said. “I can’t. But I won’t say it again if you don’t want me to.”

You closed your eyes briefly, as if that hurt more than my original confession.

“It’s not about the words,” you said. “It’s about what they do to me. To us. To… everything.”

You gestured vaguely, as if “everything” was too big to point at.

“I’ve spent a long time trying to keep certain parts of my life separate. The good memories over here, the bad ones over there, the present somewhere in the middle. It’s the only way I know how to stay.. functional. When you say you love me, it feels like you’re trying to merge all of that. And I don’t know who I’d be, if that happened. I’m not sure I want to find out.”

I wanted to tell you that maybe you’d be happier. That maybe, just maybe, letting someone in, wouldn’t destroy you. That maybe love doesn’t always have to be a wrecking ball.. that sometimes it can be scaffolding.

But I also knew I was speaking from a place of wanting, and you were speaking from a place of surviving. Those are not equal positions.

So I just nodded again. It felt like surrender. Maybe it was.

So I stayed quiet. And you stayed distant. And the moment passed, the way moments do, when neither person is brave enough to catch them before they fall.

We didn’t talk much after that. The conversation drifted to safer topics, the way people talk about the weather after a storm has already passed through and left half the town in ruins.

You made a joke. I laughed. We pretended the air wasn’t different now.

Later, when you left, you hugged me a little tighter than usual. Or maybe I imagined that. Maybe I needed to believe that the world hadn’t just fallen into a void.

The door closed behind you and I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where you’d been, feeling the echo of your presence like a handprint on my chest.

I replayed it all in my head, over and over. The way your eyes flashed when I said it. The way your voice trembled on “Don’t.”. The way you talked about your memories like they were a museum exhibit.. you can look, but do not touch.

And somewhere between the replay and the regret, a strange understanding settled in.

You weren’t rejecting me. Well, not exactly. You were rejecting the idea that love is always a good thing. That it always builds, never breaks. That it always adds, never takes away.

For you, love had been a wrecking crew once. Maybe more than once. It had come in with promises and left you in pieces. So you built something for yourself out of what was left. A quiet life. A set of routines. A collection of moments that only belonged to you. Then I came along, with my feelings, and my words, and my need to be known, and I threatened that balance without even realizing it.

I thought saying “I love you” was an offering. A gift. A bridge.

For you, it was a risk. A crack in the wall you’d spent years reinforcing.

So no, you didn’t say it back. You didn’t smile. You didn’t cry. You didn’t run into my arms.

You did something much harder. You told me the truth.

You told me that my love might be real, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.

And I’m left with this: a word I can’t unsay, a silence I can’t unhear, and a strange, aching respect for the way you chose for yourself.

People like to say that if it’s real, love finds a way. That if it’s meant to be, it will be. That timing is just an excuse.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re not.

All I know is that sometimes love isn’t an invitation. Sometimes it’s an intrusion. Sometimes love shows up like a gentle knock on the door. Sometimes it shows up like a storm. And sometimes it shows up quietly, in a room with a muted TV and a half‑finished drink, and it’s told softly.. to stay outside.

Not because it isn’t wanted..

But because the person on the other side has finally learned how to live with their own company, their own memories, their own carefully arranged, dimly lit room.

And they’re not ready to let you walk in with your shoes on.

How we met:

I am a Pentecostal Christian. At my church, there are four age groups: children (ages 5–14), youth (from age 14 until marriage), brothers (men), and sisters (women). We first met in the children’s group when we were young; back then, I didn’t have a crush on her—we didn’t even talk, and we didn’t really know each other. That’s also where I made most of the friends I still have today.

How I started to like her:

At the time, I had a crush on another girl, but I also had feelings for her—let’s call the girl I like now "Emma," and the one I used to like "Alessia." I liked Alessia, but it felt like those feelings were fading, and that’s when I noticed Emma looking at me. She looked my way a few times, and I assumed she liked me, so I started to develop feelings for her too.

How Emma found out I liked her:

Well, she did find out... It was her birthday, and she already suspected that I liked her. I sent her a "Happy Birthday" message, but she didn’t reply—and that’s how I heard she found out.

What happened next:

Some time later, I was talking to someone who helps me out with these kinds of things, and they said, "You know she likes another guy, right?" I didn't know about it at the time, but later she explained that she had been to an acquaintance's wedding, where she met a guy from another part of the country—and she told me he was hitting on her, things like that.

I got her a gift:

Despite all this, I still liked her, so I got her a gift (if you want to know how, check my profile and look for the story "I made a gift for my crush"). I want to give it to her, but I’m afraid—though lately, I’ve been thinking I should just go for it, in case she ends up leaving with that guy.

The ending:

So, Emma doesn't like me; she can't stand me and thinks I'm annoying. Still, I really like her and want to give her the gift I bought, but I don't know how. If she refuses to take it, the whole church will find out, I’ll end up looking like a fool, and she’ll hate me even more. I carry her gift with me every single day, just to remind me of her.

Sometimes, the moments that teach us the most are the ones we never expect. We often think that life-changing experiences have to be something big, but I've come to realize that even an ordinary conversation can make us look at things differently.

Imagine having a day when everything feels overwhelming. You have responsibilities to take care of, things you're worried about, and plans that aren't going the way you expected. You try to act normal around other people, even though your mind is full of thoughts you don't know how to explain.

Then, during an ordinary moment, someone takes the time to listen to you without judging you or trying to tell you what to do. They don't have all the answers, and they can't magically solve your problems, but their willingness to listen makes a difference.

What makes moments like this special is that the other person may not even realize how much their actions mean to you. For them, it might have been just another conversation. For you, it might become something you remember for years.

I've learned that we sometimes underestimate the impact we can have on other people's lives. A little patience, an honest conversation, or a few encouraging words can mean more than we imagine.

It has also made me think about how often we judge people without knowing what they are dealing with. Someone might seem unfriendly when they're simply tired. Another person might seem distant because they have a lot on their mind. We rarely know the complete story behind someone's behavior.

I think that's one reason kindness and understanding are so important. We don't need to know everything about someone to treat them with respect.

Looking back, I believe one of the most useful lessons we can learn is to pay more attention to the small moments in life. We spend so much time waiting for something exciting to happen that we sometimes overlook the ordinary experiences that help us grow.

What's one small experience or conversation that changed the way you think about life?

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone for a few seconds before finally calling Kenji.

After a couple of rings, Kenji answered.

“Yo, Marcus. What’s up?”

“Not much,” Marcus said. “You busy?”

“Nah. What’s going on?”

Marcus hesitated.

“Okay, I got a weird question for you.”

Kenji laughed. “That already sounds concerning.”

Marcus chuckled. “What would you think if I told you I liked your mom?”

There was a long silence.

“...My mom?”

“Yeah. Yuki.”

Kenji was quiet for another moment.

“Wait. You mean like like her?”

Marcus sighed. “Yeah.”

Kenji laughed in disbelief.

“Marcus, I thought you liked Ivory.”

“I do.”

“Then what the hell?”

“I don't know,” Marcus said. “I mean, I still have feelings for Ivory, but she's married. She's got Mr. Liu, and she has Ben and Kenny. I'm not trying to get between their family or anything.”

Kenji nodded even though Marcus couldn't see him.

“So you're saying you like my mom too?”

“Basically.”

Kenji laughed again.

“Man, you really don't make things easy for yourself.”

Marcus smiled. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“I mean, I know my mom is attractive and everything,” Kenji said. “But hearing you say it is definitely weird.”

“Fair enough.”

Kenji thought for a moment.

“But honestly, I'd rather you tell me than hide it.”

Marcus became more serious.

“I'd never disrespect your mom. If she wasn't interested, I'd leave it alone. And I'm not expecting anything.”

“That's probably the important part,” Kenji replied. “My mom gets to decide how she feels.”

“Exactly.”

There was another pause.

Then Kenji said, “But I'm still trying to process the fact that you went from Ivory to my mom.”

Marcus laughed.

“It's not like I planned it.”

“You're something else, Marcus.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Kenji chuckled.

“But seriously, I know you like Ivory. And I know she's married. So if you're trying to find somebody who's actually available, I can understand why Yuki crossed your mind.”

Marcus leaned back against his pillow.

“That's kind of what I was thinking.”

“Well,” Kenji said, “just don't make it awkward.”

“I won't.”

“And if you ever tell her, don't make me the middleman.”

Marcus laughed.

“Deal.”

Kenji laughed too.

“Good. Because I don't want to be sitting at dinner while you two are flirting and thinking, ‘Damn, Marcus actually told me about this.’”

Marcus shook his head.

“Fair enough.”

The two continued talking for a while, eventually moving on to other things.

But after the call ended, Marcus stared at his phone again.

He still had feelings for Ivory.

But now, for the first time, he had admitted out loud that Yuki had caught his attention too.

Before we get going, there's something you ought to know.

Every story in this book comes from real people. My family. My

friends. The fellas at the coffee club, the neighbors over the fence,

the folks I've stood beside at weddings, funerals, ball games, and

the hardware store. I've been collecting their stories, and living a

few of my own, for a long, long time.

But I've also been telling them for a long, long time. And you

know how that goes. A story gets told at Thanksgiving, then again

at a graduation party, then again on a porch at midnight, and every

time it gets a little bigger. The fish grows. The hail gets heavier. The

dog gets smarter. By now, some of these stories are about ninety

percent true. Some are more like sixty. One or two are mostly true

in spirit, if not in fact.

So here's my advice. Some of these you should take with a grain

of salt. Maybe a whole shaker. The rest? I'll just leave those to your

imagination.

I've changed names, moved a few things around, and stitched

some stories together from more than one life, because the best

lessons tend to happen to more than one person. If you think you

recognize yourself in here, you might be right. You might also be

one of about six people who did the exact same dumb thing. Either

way, I promise I was laughing with you. Mostly.

Here's what I won't stretch: the lessons. The Fix at the end of

each story is the real deal. Those are the things that worked, the

things I wish somebody had told me sooner. And when it comes to

the serious stuff, your health, your money, your legal papers,

please talk to the real experts. I'm just the fella in the driveway.

The autumn air on the roof was always cold, but for Aarav, it was the only place he felt alive. A shut-in swallowed by depression, his days blurred into a silent fog of dark rooms and empty hours. Every evening, he would creep up to the rooftop, light a cigarette, and watch the distant city lights, feeling utterly disconnected from the world below.

Then, one foggy night, she appeared.

Sitting on the edge of the parapet was Ananya—his childhood friend whom he hadn’t seen in years. She looked pale, quiet, and delicate, but her smile instantly cut through his numbness.

From that night on, the roof became their sanctuary. Every evening, Aarav would wait anxiously by the rusted door. They talked for hours about their childhood memories, their fears, and their broken dreams. She listened to him like no one else ever had. Every word she spoke echoed in his heart. Overwhelmed by her warmth, Aarav fell hopelessly, deeply in love. Her presence slowly pulled him out of his dark abyss; his life began to feel stable, meaningful, and bright again.

One clear, starry night, unable to contain his feelings any longer, Aarav proposed to her. Ananya looked at him with tears glistening in her eyes and softly agreed.

Over the next few weeks, a newly confident Aarav waited for the right, calm moments to share the joyous news with his family. Finally, over dinner, he confessed to his parents that he had been meeting Ananya and intended to marry her.

A heavy, agonizing silence fell over the room. His parents exchanged horrified looks.

"Aarav... that's impossible," his father said, his voice trembling. "Ananya passed away three months ago."

Aarav laughed, thinking it was a cruel joke, but his mother began to cry. His father explained the tragic truth: Ananya had been deeply depressed, consumed by severe insecurities, and crippled by shyness. Feeling unloved by the world, she had made the quiet, desperate choice to swallow a slow-acting poison one evening.

The poison took twelve hours to work. Right after drinking it, she had wandered up to the rooftop—where she ran into Aarav for the first time in years. Aarav’s gentle words and kindness that very first night had touched her so deeply that she wanted to live again. But it was already too late; the poison was already in her system.

She went back down to her room and spent her final hours writing a long, heartfelt letter to her mother. In it, she confessed her newfound love for Aarav, writing through her tears that she had finally found warmth in the world, but her time had ran out. She passed away early the next morning. To protect her memory, her family had kept the suicide completely private, sharing the painful truth only with Aarav’s parents.

Refusing to believe a single word, a hysterical Aarav rushed to her family's house. Sensing his utter denial, Ananya’s grieving father quietly led him to the security room and played the rooftop CCTV footage from the past three months.

Aarav stared at the monitor, his world shattering into a thousand pieces.

On the screen, night after night, the camera showed Aarav sitting alone on the cold concrete ledge—smoking cigarettes, laughing, leaning in close, and pouring his heart out to the empty air.

He had spent three months utterly, hopelessly in love with a ghost.

Body: This is a story about how my friends completely abandoned me over a situation I had no control over and wasn't to blame for.

Note: This story was written entirely by me. I used AI only to translate my original text into English. The story itself was not generated by AI.

Let's start from the very beginning. My first friend - I'll call him Daniel. I met him in college, and at that time, I truly believed I had found the perfect friend. Let's start from the very beginning. My first friend - I'll call him Daniel. I met him back in high school, and at that time, I truly believed I had found the perfect friend. Here is how we met. Back before our school banned phones during breaks, I brought my phone to school and decided to play a game about warplanes during recess. Suddenly, a guy walked up to me and was genuinely surprised to see I was playing the exact same game he played. We struck up a conversation, introduced ourselves, and basically became friends right then and there. Here is how we met. Back before our school banned phones during breaks, I brought my phone to school and decided to play a game about warplanes during recess. Suddenly, a guy walked up to me and pointed out with surprise that he played the exact same game. We started talking, traded names, and got to know each other. Since this was a year and a half ago, I don't remember much from that period. We were in different classes, so we didn't talk all that much. But whenever we saw each other, we would say hi and ask how the other was doing. Since this was a year and a half ago, I don't remember much from that period. We were in different classes, so we didn't talk all that much. But whenever we saw each other, we would say hi and ask how the other was doing. A year later, by a lucky coincidence, we were transferred into the same class and started studying together. Since we hadn't talked much during that time, he had managed to make another friend. I'll call him Alex. I got to know him, and he turned out to be even friendlier than Daniel. He was very polite, and I decided that we were the perfect trio. We kept hanging out, and that was probably the golden age of our friendship. We grew really close over the span of a month or two. During that time, my friends told me about War Thunder, a game I had heard a lot about and really wanted to download. My initial attempts ended up giving my computer a virus, so I had to put it on hold. Eventually, during a computer science class, my friends helped me download War Thunder, and I was so happy. We started playing together. Another month or so passed like this. During that time, I found out that Alex and Daniel were also friends with another guy - I'll call him Ryan. I met him as well, and by then, there were four of us. On one hand, that felt great: the more friends, the better. But on the other hand, I started noticing that they were spending less time with me and interacting more among themselves. It happened gradually, though. Let me explain it step by step. I think I should mention that all of this happened in Spain. I moved there with my family, and that's where I met my friends, though now it's hard for me to call them friends; acquaintances is a more fitting word. Over the course of about two months, I started noticing that with each passing week, I was talking to them less and less, while they were interacting more and more with each other. Around that time, Daniel started moving away from War Thunder, switching to World of Tanks and then Roblox, and Alex did the same. In the end, I was left as the only one who kept playing War Thunder regularly. Even so, they would occasionally invite me to play War Thunder with them, which I really appreciated.

Later, as we began to drift further apart and talked less and less, conflicts started arising between us, almost as if on cue. I remember about three or four of them. Let me break them down. The first conflict happened around December or January. It was mainly between me and Ryan. I don't remember how it started, but it was likely because Ryan began being rude to me, and as a result, I muttered something offensive about him under my breath, and of course, he heard it. A confrontation broke out between us. We stared each other down, went forehead-to-forehead, and he even started threatening that one day he was going to beat me up and that I'd regret it. Honestly, that was pretty unlikely; not only was I bigger than him, but I was also without a doubt stronger, though I don't want to brag. It was a dumb conflict that started over nothing and ended only with empty threats and insults. For about a month, we continued being friends as before. Around that time, I even started my own personal journal. Someone ended up stealing it, though, so I started a new one. Ironically, right after that, I found my old journal, but I decided to stick with the new one anyway. Before all the journal stuff, I had a notebook where, for some reason, I used to write down the names of my friends, acquaintances, and classmates, along with everything I knew about them, even where they lived. Since we lived in a pretty small town, figuring out where everyone lived wasn't hard at all. At first, I was just doing it to kill time during class, but eventually, I noticed that my friends were really puzzled when they saw their names, especially since they couldn't read my language. They grew curious and even tried to steal the notebook from me. That's when I came up with a new purpose for it. I realized that they were starting to show interest in me again and ask questions. For me, it felt like a total lifeline, even though I knew deep down it wouldn't last, given how we were drifting apart. Still, it was a great way to capture their attention. In the end, I decided to just hand the notebook over to them and let them do whatever they wanted with it. And after that, things went back to the way they were. About a week or two after I started my personal journal, right before summer break, another conflict broke out that completely ruined my reputation. But there was actually one more conflict before that one, so let me tell you about that first.

The conflict went like this: they invited me to play War Thunder in a custom match against each other. We actually had a great time that evening. But then things took a turn. During the game, I asked the guys not to kill me because I wanted to test something out in the game. Daniel completely ignored my request, went ahead, and destroyed my vehicle anyway. That hurt my feelings, and I started speaking up about it, but Daniel brushed it off, saying it was just a game and that this was totally normal. I was upset, of course, but I quickly let it go.

Shortly after, Daniel himself asked us not to kill him because he wanted to test or do something. Naturally, I did the exact same thing to him. And of course, his reaction was double standards at their finest. He raised his voice and, in an outraged tone, claimed that I shouldn't have killed him because he had asked me not to. I pointed out that he was the one who ignored my request first and destroyed my vehicle, so I just paid him back and we were even. But then Alex stepped in, took Daniel’s side, and declared that what I did wasn't fair and was actually pretty messed up. On the surface, it might look harmless. After all, it’s just a game about destroying enemy armor. But it clearly showed that my friends valued themselves above me, and soon you'll see why that turned out so bad.

So, a few weeks later, right before summer break, the final conflict happened, the one that completely destroyed my reputation. It went like this: during PE class, we were playing sports with soft foam balls. I don't know who started throwing them first, but it was most likely Daniel. Of course, it started as fun, but it eventually turned into a real conflict. The thing is, they kept throwing the balls at me with full force, aimed right at my head. Not directly at my face, thankfully, but still. I threw them back, they threw them back at me, I threw them back again. Eventually, I was close to tears. I went to the restroom to drink some water and wash my face, then came back and asked them to stop doing it. Naturally, one of them ignored it. We kept throwing balls at each other. Finally, my nerves snapped. I walked over to Alex, holding a foam ball in my hand, and hit him on the head with it twice while saying, "I asked you to stop throwing balls." He lunged at me and put me in a headlock. Fortunately, I was in control of the situation, and we both ended up on the floor. He shouted an insult at me, right around the time the class ended, and we all headed home. I felt completely hurt and depressed. However, that evening, before going to bed, I decided to text them an apology on WhatsApp. But my friends' response shocked me. I decided to apologize to both Alex and Daniel right away, since Daniel had witnessed the whole confrontation. I wrote that I was sorry about what happened and that I shouldn't have acted that way. Alex didn't comment on my words at all, but Daniel was the first to reply. He wrote that I had done something terrible, that I should be ashamed of myself, and that I needed to reflect on my behavior and change the way I interacted with my friends. I was scared by his response and utterly bewildered at the same time, because I wasn't the one at fault here. By the way, I forgot to mention: Daniel said that after the fight, Alex went to the hospital and ended up with a fracture. But I’ll get to that later. First, about why I wasn't at fault. Let's start with the absolute basics. The truth is, I asked them to stop doing it, but they kept throwing the balls at me anyway, which is what eventually pushed me over the edge. Sure, I actually had a pretty short temper back then, and I’d even get into physical scuffles with my brother sometimes. But while my brother would forgive me and we'd move on like nothing happened, my friends clearly refused to ever admit they were in the wrong. So after that, for two or three days, I couldn't even bring myself to look at them because I felt so ashamed that Alex had gotten a fracture. Even though deep down I knew I wasn't to blame. And I want to emphasize this especially: since they ignored my requests in the first place, which is what led to this whole outcome... well, according to my friends, ignoring my request was one thing, but ignoring theirs was a completely different story. It sounded entirely absurd. Honestly, it reeked of belittling and treating me as an inferior. And for something like that, I obviously shouldn't have been apologizing. Well, after a couple of days, I finally decided to talk to Alex, and surprisingly, he forgave me, even though he was still a bit hurt. As for the fracture, he said that he had actually held a bottle wrong and dislocated his thumb because of that. But if that's true, it makes no sense why Daniel told me it was a consequence of our fight, when the real cause was completely different. Personally, I think Alex just didn't want to get into all the details and was simply trying to be polite about it, and I really appreciate that. In my opinion, he hid the full truth just to avoid causing any awkwardness or regret. But then it makes absolutely no sense why, just a few days later, he stopped listening to me altogether and started ignoring me, answering every single question I had with a brush-off. Whenever I asked if we were still friends, he would reply with just one word: "Maybe." It was obvious he was holding a grudge and had zero desire to actually talk about it. At the same time, the teachers who found out about my situation advised me to just "talk to him and figure out the root of the problem." But how on earth was I supposed to figure out the root cause when every question I asked was met with a lazy, one-word "maybe"? At the same time, Daniel refused to comment on any of it. Most likely, he had really absorbed into the drama and fully taken Alex's side. But I think I forgot to mention one more conflict that actually happened even earlier than the one in the game. Let me explain. The conflict happened around January or late December, though maybe even earlier. I don't remember the exact timeline. But it boiled down to the fact that I was once again pushed down the hierarchy in their group. It all started when Ryan injured his leg and couldn't walk, so he had to use a wheelchair. One day during a break, just for fun and messing around, he let someone tilt his wheelchair backward. I honestly don't know why, but the actual conflict wasn't about that. It happened when I tried to do the exact same thing, expecting it to be just as fun, but Ryan screamed at me to stop and shouted that he never gave me permission. I argued back: "Why do you let them do it, but not me? Am I worse than them?" On the one hand, you could argue it's his right to choose who gets permission. But shortly before that, I had actually asked my friends if our rights were equal, meaning whether there were any privileges in our group. My goal was to see if they viewed me as beneath them, if they thought they were superior to me and that I didn't truly matter in the group. Of course, the answer was a reassuring "No, no, everyone's equal." But moments like this clearly showed they were lying right to my face. And that whole wheelchair situation was just another proof that I didn't actually mean anything to them anymore. Even though they would still help me out or respond fine to everyday, practical stuff, I could see right through it: they just didn't want to actually be my friends. And it all trace back to that same pattern: they’d provoke me first and then paint me as the villain. You know the drill, right? It's the classic trap: provoke someone, play the victim, and turn the other person into the accused. Honestly, I was pretty nervous while writing this, since it's my very first post. I was worried that my friends might find out about it, especially considering how hard it is for me to keep my mouth shut sometimes. After that, things just tapered off smoothly: less and less and less. By the new school year, we had grown so distant from each other that Daniel wouldn't even look at me and avoided eye contact entirely. It hurt so much to see that he didn't even want to lay eyes on me. As for Alex, while he still interacted with me occasionally, he certainly didn't do it on purpose and often tried to avoid being anywhere near me. It was painful to watch one of my once-closest friends physically step back just to keep his distance when he noticed me walking toward him.

By the way, some of my other school acquaintances, finding out about what happened, even tried to help by gently hinting to my friends that we should patch things up. But of course, that didn't lead anywhere. One day, a teacher noticed something was wrong and even decided to talk to Daniel about it. I didn't get to hear their conversation, but at one point I looked over and could clearly see Daniel casting me as the villain, making it look like I had done something terrible and was entirely at fault, implying that it was no wonder they didn't want to be friends with me anymore. The teacher later confirmed that to me. Yet, despite all of that, when Ryan saw me writing in my personal journal, he still showed some curiosity, and I have to admit, I kind of liked that bit of attention, despite everything that had happened in the past.

Still, I kept trying to get close to them, occasionally chatting with them, but I could clearly see they had no desire to interact with me. One made it blatantly obvious he disliked me, while another didn't give a damn about anything that was happening.

To sum it all up: it started so well, but ended in a total failure, exactly as I described at the very beginning. A failed friendship. Of course, there will be people who side with my ex-friends, arguing that I was actually at fault or that it was simply their right to choose whether to be my friend or not. And on some level, I agree with that. It's up to them whether they want to be friends with me, but why lie to my face? Just say it directly. Yes, it will hurt, but as the saying goes, the bitter truth is better than a sweet lie. Even if you were to overlook and justify everything that happened before, this last part, their blatant lies, is completely unjustifiable.

In any case, if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading. I've always strived to be noticed, and honestly, there have been very few moments in my life where I was acknowledged as being in the right. Even my own parents refused to admit when they were wrong. Thank you all, and goodbye.

Thank you to everyone who read all the way through. To be honest, I've always wanted to be noticed and to have my truth recognized, because in reality, even my own parents rarely acknowledged it when I was obviously right. It would mean the world to me if there are people out there who support me.

As for my now former friends, if they ever read this, I honestly don't care, because I simply wrote things as they were. Of course, our perspectives might differ if they ever decide to share their side, but the truth is the truth. And truthfully, I don't wish them any ill. I would actually love for everything to go back to the way it used to be. After being so deeply attached to them for a year and a half, I can't just go out, make new friends, and throw all of this away like changing a pair of gloves.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon at Hong Kong Palace.

Marcus had finished helping Yuki and Kenji clean up after the lunch rush. He was standing near the front counter when Yuki walked over and grabbed her keys.

Yuki: “You two ready?”

Marcus looked confused.

Marcus: “Ready for what?”

Kenji immediately knew what she meant.

Kenji: “Mom wants to go for a drive.”

Marcus glanced outside.

Parked in front of the restaurant was Yuki's 2019 Lexus RX 350, looking freshly washed in the afternoon sunlight.

Marcus: “Oh. We're taking the Lexus?”

Yuki: “Yes. I need to go get something. You boys can come with me.”

Kenji grabbed his jacket.

Kenji: “I'm driving.”

Yuki gave him a look.

Yuki: “No.”

Kenji: “I didn't even ask yet.”

Yuki: “I know you.”

Marcus laughed.

Marcus: “She's got you figured out.”

A few minutes later, the three of them climbed into the Lexus. Yuki got behind the wheel, Kenji sat in the front passenger seat, and Marcus climbed into the back.

The RX 350 started smoothly.

Marcus immediately noticed how quiet it was.

Marcus: “This thing is ridiculously quiet.”

Kenji nodded.

Kenji: “That's a Lexus.”

Yuki pulled out of the parking lot.

Yuki: “And nobody is arguing in my car.”

Marcus looked at Kenji.

Kenji looked at Marcus.

They both nodded.

Marcus: “Understood.”

They drove down the road with the radio playing softly. Yuki seemed completely relaxed, one hand on the steering wheel while she casually talked with Kenji about the restaurant.

Marcus looked out the window, enjoying the scenery.

After a few minutes, Kenji turned around.

Kenji: “Marcus, you good back there?”

Marcus: “Yeah. I'm just enjoying the ride.”

Yuki glanced at him through the mirror.

Yuki: “You like the Lexus?”

Marcus: “Yeah. A lot. It's comfortable.”

Yuki: “Good.”

Marcus leaned back into the seat.

Marcus: “Honestly, I could fall asleep back here.”

Kenji laughed.

Kenji: “Don't fall asleep. Mom will think we're boring.”

Yuki smiled.

Yuki: “I already think you're both boring.”

Marcus: “Damn.”

Kenji started laughing.

Kenji: “She got us!”

Yuki continued driving while Marcus and Kenji joked around in the car.

Eventually, they stopped at a shopping center. Yuki parked the Lexus and turned the engine off.

She looked back at Marcus.

Yuki: “Come on. We're getting something to eat.”

Marcus smiled.

Marcus: “Now that's why I came.”

Kenji opened his door.

Kenji: “He heard food and suddenly became interested.”

Marcus stepped out.

Marcus: “I was interested the whole time.”

Yuki shook her head and laughed as she locked the Lexus.

The three of them walked toward the stores together, with the RX 350 sitting behind them in the parking lot.

For Marcus, it had turned into one of those unexpectedly nice afternoons—just riding around with Yuki and Kenji, listening to music, joking around, and getting something to eat.

And for once, nobody at Hong Kong Palace was arguing about anything.

At least not yet.

When the sun sets, and black begins to spread across the sky as if one spilled ink…the shades of blue… orange…pink…seeping over the horizon…leaving us in pleasant pitch softly illuminated By the lunar hues

I find myself more at ease, the time of subtle existence where time is mine…where its my decision to connect the constellations as i see fit…picking my stars by hand…and doing with them as i please

I find the solace of night a comfort, a simple quiet…one free of dread…without expectation…a peaceful brew of remedies as my gaze traces the cracks in my ceiling…spending my time filling the black with voices…be it my own or others…a quaint conversation in a quiet night

As the hours pass…i look to the window…seeing the sun…making its prevalent presence known once more in the distance…the pleasant black turning to dreadful blue…twilight…taking place….while pitch faintly remains looming over…the temptress makes herself known….coating me like blanket…but my eyes grow heavy under her weight….resting her arms round my shoulder as she guides me to my resting place….a sultry and tender voice as she murmurs to me….”go to bed….rest now….find comfort in the confines of my reach….let slumber take” as my vision begins to fade…i find myself in void…yet another pleasant pitch

Preface, i have people give me 3 words and use them to make a poem/story, in this case, it was "go to bed" lol, andbi took that personally

Theres….a peace and pestilence to stagnation…making it quaint to stay put, yet not without the feeling of restlessness we swallow each day as if they were pills of iron…all out of fear…for the last it occurred…however many more grains of sand fell through the hourglass, instead of the lesson…we only remember the pain it brought…refusing to acknowledge the teachings it's offered like the stubborn squire to a wise teacher as we insist…”i can do it myself, i don't need your help”

The sound of peace echoing through our room…becoming like second nature as we grow quiet….reclused and distance ourselves from the reality we yearn so desperately to escape…when we only must adapt….

I remember…i remember being shunned for my failures as a boy….perhaps thats why i tend to avoid it like the plague…i wish I'd had someone…better….someone with a bittersweet voice who'd have whispered and told me….”today's failure is tomorrow's success….you tried…you failed…and you will learn…there is virtue in that child”

But…instead…i had to learn, that sometimes….you must be that person…even when its so much easier not to be…sometimes you need it more than you know….so i say….don't ignore the teachings of father time, he has been…and always will be….such wisdom cannot be left to lie so carelessly…its time to pick whats right…not whats easy :)

Rupert was one of the laziest people known to man. This was a fact that he was either too aware of or too ignorant of, because in the 29 years and 11 months anyone had known him, he never changed and never wanted to change. He was content to do as little with his life as he could, and he was proud of it.

Rupert, without a hint of humor or irony, decided his 30th birthday would also be his retirement party. Retirement from any work whatsoever. His plan, in his words, was to “not have to worry about the usual 9-to-5 lifestyle, seek out options, settle down.” Their father, in his late 60s and still working, scoffed.
“Your whole goddamn life has been settling down. What do you think part 2 has to offer? Honestly, Rupert, when are you going to cut the crap?” After hearing that, Dad was uninvited to the birthday party.

In reality, Rupert didn’t have a 9-to-5 lifestyle. It was more of a 10-to-4 lifestyle. None of his jobs ever lasted more than 2 years, provided he chose to go to work at all. See, Rupert suffered from the three Nesses. Laziness, tardiness, deceitfulness. He would often show up late, take an ungodly amount of time in the bathroom, and add 10 minutes to the start and end of his lunch hour, and those were just his greatest hits. His favorite ways of getting out of work made use of his cat-like reflexes and his ninja-style ability to sneak out of something he dreaded doing.
These were just jobs that he got fired from.

The truth is it wasn’t always entirely his fault. You see, his job life was incredibly unlucky. His first job was at a video rental… before it closed down; his second job, an all-you-can-eat buffet, which also closed down. Photography film store, phased out. Bathroom attendant, replaced by a robot. Professional circus freak, no longer exists.
He was so unlucky with employment that he saw it as a sign from God that 30 years old was time enough to spend golfing and enjoying his “twilight years.”

His only viable source of income was sports betting, something he did modestly well in, but not enough to stay afloat as he foolishly idealized. Even the house he lived in was bought and paid for by his parents on his 21st. They foolishly thought that if they got him a house, it would give him enough independence where he could get a career going without the stress of paying rent and causing him to move back in with them. 9 years later, it had the opposite effect. While he didn’t move back in with his parents, he never really garnered a so-called career to speak of; the job he was currently quitting had been paying him high school teenager rates since he started there. So he wanted to retire from all that and, after all those tiny wins on the bets, he finally decided to spend it on his party.

Gerald was a people-pleaser. Gerald had no problems getting up and commuting, helping his fellow man, bending over backwards to get everything he felt like he’d earned in life. He had a job, a girlfriend, a car, his own house, everything he ever wanted, thanks to good old-fashioned hard work. His only flaw was that he was Rupert’s brother, and Rupert was about to turn 30. Gerald didn’t resent Rupert for his laid-back way of life; in fact, it was almost nonexistent in the eyes of Gerald. See, Gerald spent his whole life pleasing their parents, pleasing his bosses, pleasing everyone; he couldn’t possibly object to anything Rupert asked for. Could he? Not sweet Rupert. Sweet, stupid Rupert.
So when his brother’s birthday came up, Gerald had to get him the perfect present.

“Are your eyes still closed?” Gerald beamed as he nudged his brother through the front doorway of Rupert’s house.
“Yes. Of course.” Rupert replied with his hands covering his eyes.
Gerald continued to shepherd Rupert over to the corner left side of his already gigantic porch. Next to the doorway was a huge thing covered in a sheet.
“Ok open them!” Gerald instructed. As Rupert took his hands away, Gerald pulled the sheet off it. It was an old antique rocking chair; nothing like any rocking chair that Rupert had seen before. The wood resembled bone appendages; its color was somewhere between cream and brown, and there was a cushion with little sloths patterned all over it, which added a shred of comfortability to an already tough sell.
“Oh my god! Gerald, I love this!” Rupert cried. “See, you understand what I was talking about. You get this whole thing I’m going for.”
“I got it from some antique store,” Gerald replied. “The second I saw it, I knew it was very… you.”
“Why, I can face it into the street. Watch people walking past! My own personal theater of live performance.”
“You do like to people-watch.” Gerald stated. Rupert approached it and looked underneath.
“It says Belphegor.” He examined. “I wonder what that means.”
“It’s probably one of those wacky names they give it.” Gerald surmised. “Like that Wayfair company with all those human names.”
Rupert was about to sit on it.
“Do you know anything about who owned it before me?”
“Yeah, the guy before you died in it… apparently.” Gerald laughed. Rupert immediately changed his mind and stood back up.
“Oh god. You did… clean it down before you brought it here, right?”
“…Sure.” Gerald lied.
“I don’t know, I still feel weird about it. Do you know if it was a valued… personal item in the family?”
“They said that the guy never had a joyous moment while he was in that chair.” Gerald stated rather bluntly. Rupert looked it up and down.
“Ah, screw it. It’s mine now. Hey Ron! Come outside and look what Gerald got me! In fact! Let’s bring the cake out here.”

After an hour Rupert finally sat on his present. Everyone followed him out onto the porch and sang happy birthday, including their mother, who was the most ecstatic.
As far as Rupert was concerned, this was the greatest gift he’d ever received.

The next day, Gerald got a rather strange call from his brother.
“Gerald! It’s Rupert… your brother.”
“Oh hey, Rupert. How’d you go with cleaning up last night?”
“Yeah. Yeah good. Listen, man, you’re gonna need to come over. I have a bit of an emergency.”
“Emergency? What is it? Did you lock yourself out of your house again?” Gerald laughed. Silence on the other end.
“Yeah… It’s probably best that you come over. I can’t explain over the phone. And if I could, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

When he got there, he saw Rupert sitting in the rocking chair with a very sour look on his face.
“I see you’re really utilizing that thing, huh?” He laughed. Rupert didn’t seem to share that sentiment. In fact, Rupert looked very afraid.
“It’s the strangest thing!” He stated. “I can’t seem to get out of this chair. I haven’t been able to since yesterday.”
Gerald cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I sat in it yesterday, for the cake, I just couldn’t get back up. Of course, I thought it might’ve been because I had too many drinks, so I sent everyone home thinking I had dead legs. But now… I don’t know what it is.”
“You’ve been in this chair the whole night?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I haven’t been able to get out of it. It feels like there’s some… thing holding me down and preventing me from getting up. Luckily, I had my phone on me. It was on like 2%, so I called you as soon as I could.”
“Ok, umm… just calm down and we’ll get you out of it… somehow.”
Gerald and Rupert then spent the next 20 minutes looking at Rupert’s predicament as if they were trying to lift a couch through a very narrow doorway. Gerald then attempted to lift Rupert out of this infernal prison.
“Wait, stop. You’re bending my spine. Wait… ARRRHGGGH!!!” Rupert screamed.
“What? What do you want me to do?”
“Just… let me go for a second! Let me go,” Rupert cried. Gerald released him from his grip. “There’s got to be an easy way of doing this.”
“Should I get the saw?”
“And accidentally cut my leg? What are you, out of your mind?”
“I don’t know. I…” Gerald trailed off.
“Just get the saw. Get the saw and maybe like a drill or something. Some kind of drill.”
Gerald then sawed his way into the chair. The saw wouldn’t cut through it. He tried the drill; it short-circuited and broke down. He tried the saw again, but the tool just broke apart under its own force.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” Gerald pondered.
“I think right now we need to abandon the question of why this is happening, and focus more on how I get out of it.”

Eventually, every single emergency service was called to Rupert’s house. While the police and firefighters needed a little convincing to get over there (Gerald tried to fight through the obvious laughter coming from the other side), the ambulance people were the only ones who took it seriously. Eventually, they all showed up not because they wanted to help Rupert with his problem, but more out of curiosity. They wanted to see this thing for themselves. The firefighters brought out their very sharp axe, causing Rupert to squirm in his seat over fear that one wrong swing and he could very well lose his manhood. After the axe didn’t take, the police tried ‘shooting’ him out, which also didn’t work for obvious reasons.
“Well, it’s certainly not physical.” An onlooking doctor explained. He was looking at the chair as if it were a rare ancient artifact. “He hasn’t fused here; he certainly hasn’t been nailed. In fact, by all accounts there should be no physical reason that he should be confined to this chair.”
“So what is it?” Gerald asked.
“I’m really not sure. Was it something you ate, Rupert? What have you been eating in the last 24 hours?”
“Party food.” Rupert replied bluntly. He was already fed up with his newfound affliction and Gerald could tell.
“What kind of party food. Any drugs?”
“Just party food.”
“Huh.” The doctor stood up.
“What ‘huh’? What are you saying, Doc?”
“I might need to run a few more tests. You mind if I take a saliva and a blood sample from you?”
“Sure, but if you want a urine sample, everyone will need to turn around.” Rupert said, followed by laughter from the crowd.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday. In fact, I could go for something right now. Anyone want any pizza?”
Suddenly fifteen hands went up.
“Figures. If I’m going to be subjected to humiliation, I might as well be paying for it. Say, Gerald.”
“Yes, Rupert?” Gerald replied, leaning down by his side.
“Be a dear and order about six pizzas. One of everything.”
“Are you sure you can afford that, brother?”
“Yeah, for sure. While I was waiting for you, I bet on the Scavengers game.”
“Scavengers? They haven’t won a game all season.”
“I know. But something in me told me to bet on them. And since the last time I checked, they were up 15 points!”
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Half a dozen people then checked their phones.
“He’s right!” One of the cops claimed. More murmurs.
“The odds on that must’ve been through the roof.” Another said.
“I stand to win two grand. So yeah, Gerald, if you can get that and some garlic bread. Garlic bread, anybody? Yeah, garlic bread, ok.”
Gerald, feeling like he should’ve been doing more, just nodded and got up.
“Sure, brother. I’ll get right onto it.”
“Love you,” Rupert replied flatly.

Later, after the show was over and everyone went home, Gerald brought a few things out for Rupert onto the porch. A side table, a six-pack of beers, a pack of smokes, and a phone charger plugged into an extension cord that led into the house.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in the house?” Gerald asked, handing him a beer. “I don’t know if I like you being out here all night.”
“I was out here last night and was fine,” Rupert smirked. “Besides, it’s still warm out; I think it would be relaxing. I mean it’s not every day where you can just… not do anything, and get away with it.”
“Well, some people don’t have that luxury.” Gerald shrugged.
“Also, I need to write a grocery list of things I need you to get tomorrow.”
“You think you’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“I was this morning. Why wouldn’t I be again?”

Rupert was there the next day, and the day after that and the day after that. Eventually his parents came by. His mother said she was heartbroken that “My Rupert is in such a horrible state.” His father just laughed his ass off, saying it served him right.

Later that week, Gerald went over to Rupert’s with his groceries.
Doctor Johnson, the guy who ran his tests the other day, was there with him.
“Ahh, Gerald, right on time.” Rupert sang.
“I was just talking to the good doctor about this whole… what-have-you. He told me that ‘you might want to sit down for this ’; I was ready to smack him.”
“It’s the strangest thing.” Doctor Johnson shrugged. “His blood work came back fine. He doesn’t appear to have anything broken or dislocated. And he hasn’t been through any traumatic events recently.”
“Other than turning 30.” Rupert joked.
“You think this is all in his mind?” Gerald asked.
“That was my first guess, yes. See, there are certain types of catatonia from trauma. Some people are completely paralyzed; some people only get it from the waist down.”
“Doctor, you don’t understand. Gerald tried lifting me out of that chair, and it physically hurt me. Almost like my legs and spine were being moved in a way they shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, it was like he’s become one with the chair.” Gerald added.
“But that can’t be right. There must be some…” The doctor stroked his chin.
“Doc, I think we need to abandon the question of why this is happening and focus more on how we can get him out of it.” Gerald stated.
“My suggestion? Get a priest, or an exorcist. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Doctor Johnson then left.
“Rupert. What’s going on? I tried calling you about your groceries.”
“I must’ve slept in.”
“It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What do you want me to tell ya? I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Was it too cold? Damn it, Rupert. I knew this would happen.”
“No, no. It wasn’t cold. It’s just… you know. My ass hurts. My back hurts. And those DAMN KIDS ARE PLAYING THEIR LOUD MUSIC UP AND DOWN THE STREET!” Rupert yelled that last part, assuming that the kids in the neighborhood could hear him. “It’s that Donovan boy, I swear.”
“I can put you inside.”
“No, no, and watch television all day? I can do that on my phone. It’s not all bad, though.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know; ever since I got stuck here, I’ve been having nothing but good luck. I’ve won $5000 in betting, I’m having all this fresh air I never thought I’d have, and the mailman hand-delivers my mail.”
“You won 5 grand this week?”
“Every single thing I bet on has won. At first I thought maybe it was just a coincidence. I mean, I’ve had big wins before, but not this consistent. And I used to do it with small stuff, like 1.5-to-1 odds. Now every risk I take pays off huge. I’m not even betting on the safe results anymore. Why do that when I can make more on the long shots?”
“Way to go, Rupert.” Gerald cheered, patting him on the shoulder. “See, if you had put this to good use in high school, you would’ve completed your grade 12.”
“I keep telling you. The school was terrified by my intelligence.”
“Ok buddy.” Gerald laughed. “Then look, I’ll make a few calls to get a priest…”
“Doctors. What do they know?” Rupert scoffed.
“Rupert, if this chair has something to do with this we-“
“The chair is fine. We don’t need some witch doctor-“
“Witch doctor? It’ll be a catholic priest-“
“And we don’t need them coming in and ruining what I have going here.”
Gerald looked at him.
“Oh I see what this is,” Gerald scoffed. “You’re worried that if a priest blesses the chair, then you’re going to lose your winning streak.”
“And so why ruin a good thing?”
“Rupert, you can’t be in a chair forever.”
“If it means winning so much money that I don’t have to work another day in my life, hell yeah I’m gonna stay in this chair.”
“At least let me bring you into the house.”
“Why are you obsessed with me going into the house? I love it out here.”
“You hate it out here.”
“I don’t… mind it out here.” Rupert compromised, trying to save face.
“Have it your way, brother.” Gerald sighed, handing Rupert his grocery bag. “But seriously, keep your phone on at all times. I was worried about you.”
“If I have any issues, I’ll let you know. Thanks for getting my sundries.”
“Anyway, I should really get back; otherwise Nicole is going to be wondering what’s happening.”
“I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
“Yeah, I’m still in awe of it myself.”
“I wonder how you’re going to get me there.” Rupert laughed. Gerald didn’t see the funny side.
“Don’t talk like that; you’ll be fine in no time.”
“No, it’s because I hate weddings. But while we’re on the subject of that. I really don’t see myself getting out of this chair anytime soon.”

Despite his apprehension, Rupert attended Gerald’s wedding, chair and all. Gerald did make one small change, however. He asked Rupert if he was happy to give up being the best man. Rupert agreed, believing that it would be a very odd thing to see, for all those involved, a man in a rocking chair making a toast.
After that, Rupert didn’t see his brother much for the next few weeks; he didn’t need to. He had the fresh air, all the food delivery that he could eat, and more money than he knew what to do with. He even made it on the news.

“We’re standing here live with Rupert Davis!” The female reporter said to her camera. “A man who, up until a few months ago, was able-bodied and penniless. But after sitting in this rocking chair. All that changed for him. Now, he’s a self-made millionaire, and he’s still not getting out of that chair. Now Rupert, tell us. How did this happen?”
“Well, Cynthia,” Rupert said smoothly. “It’s the darnedest thing. Can I say darn?”
“That’s probably the only thing you can say on Channel 6.” She smiled.
“So my brother Gerald. Hi Gerald.” He waved at Gerald in the crowd; Gerald waved back. “My brother, he bought me this rocking chair. And when I sat down, all of a sudden I just won everything. Sporting events, dog races, scratch and wins. I mean, I’d buy a lottery ticket but I feel like that wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.” He laughed; a real natural in front of the camera.
“Do you feel that winning all this money is the reason you haven’t left the chair? Are you worried you’re going to taint your luck should you get out of it?”
“See, I believe the chair is magic. I mean, I literally can’t get out of it, even if I wanted to.”
“Magic, really?” The reporter asked excitedly.
“Oh yeah, Cynthia. Most definitely.”
“So if you could get out of it, would you?”
“Well I talked to Gerald, and we figured that if the chair and the luck are related. If I get out of the chair, I might lose my winning streak. So, not a chance.”
“Fascinating.”
“Would you?” Rupert smiled.
“Probably not. Now I think the big question on everybody’s lips- certainly my lips- is… how do you go to the bathroom?”
Rupert laughed, followed by a moment of blushing.
“Yeah, we have a system for that.”
“Well, there you have it!” The reporter turned back to the camera and beamed. “This is Cynthia Allbright, Channel 6!”

After everyone had left, Gerald cracked open a beer with Rupert.
“You on TV. I never thought I’d see the day.” Gerald laughed.
“It’s exactly how I imagined it.” Rupert smiled. Gerald put the beer down.
“Listen, Rupert. I gotta talk to you. See… now that Nicole and I are married, we gotta figure out what we’re doing.”
“What are you trying to say, brother?” Rupert asked, looking slightly anxious.
“It means it… might not… be that easy to come over as much anymore.”
“What, you’re going to leave me?”
“No, no, I didn’t say that at all. I’m just saying that… perhaps you might want to consider a live-in housekeeper.”
“They’re not gonna understand my needs. They probably won’t even understand why I have the needs that I do.”
“Well, if you pay them enough, I’m sure-”
“I don’t want them; I want you. I want my brother. Tell you what. Why don’t you live here.”
“Yeah right.” Gerald scoffed.
“Why did you scoff? It’s a great idea!”
“No, I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Why not?”
“And use your bedroom? No way.”
“You can use the other bedroom if you like.”
“Ehh, I don’t know.”
“What if I buy you a house? Somewhere close by.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
“Well, you’re not asking; I’m offering. Look, it’s either you move in here, or I get you a house. God knows I can afford it. Pick one, whatever option that will soothe your poor catholic guilt conscience, because I really don’t care.”
“… How big of a house. And Venetians, can we get Venetians?”
“Of course you pick that one. I’ve always said you were a bastard. But yes, I’m sure we can do that.”

And by late September, Rupert, who had accumulated up to 3 million dollars in bet wins, bought Gerald and Nicole a house that was one street over. He even paid Gerald $10,000 so he didn’t have to worry about making ends meet at work. After all, he had the money for it; so much so that the taxation department began questioning Rupert about how he would correctly file his new windfall. Not to mention the four betting websites accusing him of cheating; their claim was that he must have had some kind of insider information on the teams he bet on. They dropped the accusations when they found out he was a 30-year-old nobody confined to a rocking chair, but they still prohibited him from using their sites anyway. Only one website continued to do business with him and even made him a company sponsor; Rupert didn’t know whether they felt sorry for him or saw it as an excellent marketing strategy. “Luckiest Man on Earth’s official betting site!” As for the dog racing, he simply got his neighbor Harry to go down to the sports bar twice a week.
Things took a dark turn, though, as they so often do.
It was early October when Rupert was enjoying a crisp but not freezing night on his usual spot on the porch. His phone was on 1% battery, and as he reached for his charger, the extension cord snagged on one of the planks of wood on the floor. It jerked out of Rupert’s hand and fell to the ground—a couple of feet out of reach.
“Shit!” He hissed to himself. It wasn’t a great concern, though; he had his dinner and beverages all prepared ahead of time. He figured he could just wait it out until morning and ask the mailman to pass it over.

But then he heard it. A woman screaming her head off down the street. At first, Rupert was curious. Then he saw her limping, in a slow sprint, past his house.
“Come back here bitch!” A male voice, belonging to someone he couldn’t see, came from a distance. Then he saw the perpetrator's face—a dangerous-looking guy holding a hunting knife. Rupert did everything he could not to make a noise. But his stupid automatic porch light came on and shone directly onto the man.
“Who’s that?” He yelled out. Then he walked up to the garden path.
“Is it you, Rocking Chair?!” He screamed.
“No man, I don’t want any trouble. It’s… it’s an automatic light.” Rupert stammered out. The man walked up onto the porch.
“What the hell you looking at? I’ll kill you, close your eyes!” The man roared. Rupert did as he was told. The man leaned down next to Rupert, who, by this point, was shaking.
“What I do… is none of your FUCKING business. You hear me?! I oughta slice your throat right now.” With that, the man brought the blade up to Rupert’s face and lightly held it against his neck.
“Open your eyes.” Rupert didn’t have to; he already knew the blade was there, but he opened them anyway. “Did you hear what I said!”
Rupert nodded vigorously. The man looked at him.
“What are you, some kinda cripple?” He asked. Rupert nodded. The man took his knife away. “Understand something, cripple. Keep the porch light off at night. Because if I see a porch light on and I think you’re trying to incriminate me, I get scared. And if I'm scared, I don’t have to tell you how scared you’ll be.”
He turned and walked away before looking behind him.
“You didn’t see nothing.”

The next day, Gerald got a call from the police who told him about what happened.
“I want you to get me a gun. A big one. Like a shotgun. And security cameras all over the front yard.” Rupert rambled. He was still visibly shaken.
“You really want a gun?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. And we need extension cords longer than this sorry excuse. You know I could’ve died last night!”
“I know I can get a gun; I just… don’t know how I can get one for you specifically.”
“Take me down there; it should be fine. It’s this street, brother. It’s no longer safe outside.”
“So come inside!”
“No! I shouldn’t have to.”
Suddenly, one of the kids passed by the house.
“Hey, Mister Davis!” The kid called out. “You finally giving out candy this Halloween?”
“You go to hell!” Rupert roared.
“Ok so what we’re not going to do is curse at the children,” Gerald said condescendingly. “Especially after you said you wanted a gun.”
“Oh he doesn’t count. That Donovan kid is an asshole; he always says the most annoying things to me, like ‘Oh, how was your day?’ Screw him.”
Eventually, Gerald caved and got Rupert a double-barrel shotgun, right by his side.

Halloween came around. Although Rupert wasn’t prepared to blast away at kids (more so in case that crazy guy came back), he had foolishly assumed that having the shotgun by his side indicated that he was not handing out candy and that he meant it. This did little to deter the kids, since they thought it was part of whatever horror theme he was going for.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” A group of kids said in unison with their father in the background.
“No, I’m not doing Halloween, kids.” Rupert said bluntly. They all looked a little let down. A few of them walked away sadly.
“Yeah, nice going, Davis!” The father scowled.
“Get lost, Grant!” Rupert replied. “What, you think because I’m out here that I’m going to, just, give in? My condition is not your Halloween costume, pal!”
“What?” The dad asked.
“Oh just go away, alright?!”
Once most of the children cleared his porch there was another trick ‘r’ treater still standing on the steps and staring at Rupert intently. This one didn’t look like a kid. In fact, it didn’t look human at all. It was slouching and had what looked like a witch’s mask on: a long pointed nose, an ugly face, and great horns coming from its head.
“Nice costume,” Rupert said, admiring the realism. “Anyway, as I told the others, I’m not doing it.”
The figure just stared at him.
“You heard me! Get out of here! Get!” The figure walked away slowly and silently.

Later, Rupert wrote a sign that said, “No Trick ‘r’ Treaters. Please!” Naturally, a few kids wanted to defy the warning. Rupert learned this when a few 10-year-olds rolled up with no parental supervision.
“Trick ‘r’ Treat.” The head kid demanded, holding out his bag.
“Can’t you read?” Rupert sighed. “I’m not going to be tricking OR treating!”
“That’s not fair!” The kid stamped his foot.
“Fair? Who said life was fair?! I’ve been in this chair for months! Where’s my fairness?”
“You have to give us candy.” One of the other kids demanded, clearly unmoved by Rupert’s statement.
“I don’t have to give you shitttt. Where are your parents?” As Rupert looked out for any grown-ups that might’ve been standing from a distance behind them - as they usually do - these kids were quickly turning into an angry mob.
“That’s part of the rules!” The head honcho cried. “That’s the rules of Halloween! Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“Rules? Look, some of you aren’t even wearing costumes! There is zero effort here!”
“That’s the rules of Halloween!” The kid repeated. “Now trick ‘r’ treat!”
“No trick ‘r’ treat!”
“TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“NO TRICK ‘R’ TREAT!”
“Alright!” The head kid stepped back. “You asked for it, buddy. Men! Take position!”
“What are you doing?” Rupert asked, suddenly alarmed.
“Aim!” The kids pulled out eggs. “Fire!”
Dozens of eggs were catapulted in Rupert’s direction.
“Ah the shell cut me! Ow ow!” Rupert screamed as he was completely covered in broken shells and yolk.
“Trick ‘r’ treat, JERK!” The head kid scowled.
“Why you little…”
Rupert leaped out of his chair and tried to run after them, only for his legs to give out on him. He face-planted his garden path, while the kids laughed, threw him the finger, and ran away. Rupert turned around to look at the empty rocking chair, sitting vacantly on his porch. He was out of his chair. After months, he was no longer confined! He was free.
“How the-“ he began before stopping himself short; there was no time to ponder over the particulars at that moment. He had to go to Gerald’s house. He struggled to get up, legs stiff and back like jelly. As he straightened up, he moved his legs forward, left foot, right foot. He shuffled down the garden path and out into the street. He turned to walk down the busy suburban neighborhood, shifting past passing truck ‘r’ treaters who turned and either murmured to each other in disbelief or pointed and laughed.
“Got to get to Gerald. I’ve got to…” he muttered to himself.
“Cool Frankenstein walk, Mr. Davis.” The Donovan boy called out as he passed.
“Eat shit, Donovan!” Rupert hissed.
Rupert then turned the corner of the street. He was about to walk down it when he saw the crazy man who had attacked him weeks ago. Half a dozen police officers were holding the man down; one of them was tasing him over and over, doing little to deter him and only making him visibly angrier.

Rupert turned around and decided to go to the other corner of the street to get to Gerald’s house. Every nerve in his body gave him that fuzzy, electrical feeling inside him. Full-body pins and needles screamed out in every direction. He passed his house again before reaching the other corner. Everything in him told him to sit down and take it easy, but he had spent months sitting down and taking it easy. The time was now to move before whatever demonic thing in the world changed its mind. He moved down a couple houses, all the while thinking, “just another block, just another block.”

“Hey, look. He’s finally out of his chair. The guy who didn’t want to trick ‘r’ treat.” A voice came from one of the alleys. Out came the head trick ‘r’ treater that launched an egg attack on him. Only he didn’t have just four or five friends with him. Now there were almost a dozen kids behind him, all dressed in various Halloween costumes.
“He’s gonna tell on us.” One of them called out. Another one had a foam bat that, to a regular adult, wouldn’t pack a great wallop; but with Rupert’s condition, it could probably do more damage.
“Get him!” The ringleader ordered with a smirk. Suddenly, the kids ran after him, causing Rupert to turn back the way he came. His limping and shuffling turned into a kind of quick-paced hobble as he made his way back to his house. Angry children started gaining on him as the gap between them began closing. Then he tripped and fell, and they pounced on him; witches, vampires, ghosts and pirates all started kicking him and bringing the foam bat down onto his shaking body. He was only two houses away from his porch, so he began crawling away.
“Pick him up!” One of them cried. Four or five of them did their best to lift him like he was some unmanned island’s sacrificial animal ready to be put onto a spit roast. They brought him to his porch.
“Tie him to the chair!” The ringleader commanded with venom.
“No! No! Stop!!” Rupert cried out but was too exhausted to fight it. One of the kids dealt him a surprisingly powerful slug to the face.
“This will teach you.” Scowled the one who dealt the hit.
Suddenly, ropes surrounded him, wrapping around him and the rocking chair.
“Next time, be prepared.” The ringleader hissed. They all then ran off, leaving only the trace of a couple of distant giggles to signify they were there.
Luckily, these kids were no Boy Scouts, and their rope didn’t affect his ability to get his phone from his pocket. He found Gerald’s number and put it on speaker. It reached his voicemail.
“Gerald, they tied me up—these little shits in the neighborhood. But the most incredible thing happened. Come quick!”

Gerald had an early night, so he couldn’t get to his phone until the next day. When he heard the message, he rushed over to Rupert’s house.
“I smell like egg.” Rupert sulked.
“Jesus, what happened?” Gerald exclaimed, loosening the rope from Rupert’s chair.
“I got beat up by school children. I don’t want to talk about it. Listen, something happened last night. I got out!”
Gerald stopped untying the rope and leaned down beside Rupert.
“What are you saying, Rupert?”
“I got out!” He repeated, excitedly. “I actually got out of the chair! I… I don’t know how, I don’t know why. But I got up! I tried walking to your house, but I ran into the kids, and they brought me back and tied me up.”
“Rupert, that doesn’t make any sense. Why last night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was because it was Halloween.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about something like this.” Gerald replied. He pulled out his phone and searched for a video. He pulled up the video.
“All Hallow’s Eve, or Halloween as it’s known these days, grants any trapped spirit to freely roam the earth for just one night,” The narrator explained, followed by an animated graphic. “Not for long, though. Once the night is over, the spirit must return to its place of confinement.”
“That’s it!” Gerald exclaimed. “Obviously whatever is holding you captive just… left its post, and freed you from it.”
“I saw a funny-looking guy staring at me last night. Didn’t look human. Maybe that was it.” He tried moving out of the chair to no avail.
“Guess it came back.”
“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait a year to get out again?”
“You’re actually going to try to get out? What about all the money?”
“Gerald, what good is money when I can’t enjoy it because I’m stuck here? I miss doing things. Anything. I miss going out and seeing people. I miss sleeping in a bed. You see that soccer field there?”
Rupert pointed at the one directly across the street from his house.
“Yeah?”
“As long as I’ve been living here, I’ve never been on that field. I've seen a game or two. Since being in this chair, I’ve watched every game, just hoping one day I could walk across the street and enjoy it. Enjoy… life… I guess. I need to get out of this chair. Even if it takes a year.”
“We’re going to make this work, ok?” Gerald patted him on the shoulder.
“Take me inside. I’m going to be spending a lot more time there, I think.”
So Gerald got Harry, the neighbor, to help him lift the chair in. They put Rupert in the bath, hosed him down, dried him off, and placed him next to the window inside.

The months went by. Rupert started getting fat, lethargic, and slow. When he wasn’t watching the television from his window, he was getting Gerald to turn him around to look out the window… at the soccer field. It took Rupert a while to find a delivery driver willing to enter his house to deliver his food. Many were understandably worried for their safety, since it was a very unusual request. Gerald’s wife made him food until he finally found a regular delivery driver he could rely on. He even had a small birthday celebration with their parents, Gerald and Nicole. But he urged them to celebrate only his birthday, not the one-year anniversary of the incident.

8 months had passed since the last time Rupert had been out on the porch; he stayed in for Spring, but when it hit Summer, he knew he couldn’t spend those three months inside. It felt odd to be back in his usual spot after such a long absence.

Finally, Halloween approached, and Rupert was prepared. So much so that he would even casually point his shotgun at the punks who harassed him last year, with intent to fire, all the while he waited for Gerald, who promised he’d be there. He waited, and waited, and waited. Hours went by and still no sign of him. Eventually, Rupert decided he couldn’t wait any longer, so he held onto the arms of the chair and rocked it back so hard that it launched him out of the chair and onto the garden path. Because he’d been seated longer than the last Halloween, he couldn’t stand at all. This didn’t deter Rupert; even though he landed on the concrete pretty hard, he dead-crawled down the garden path anyway.
“Nice zombie crawl, Mister Davis!”
“Donovan, I swear to god.” He snapped.
Finally, he got out onto the curb. If he had waited for a passerby, then maybe someone could’ve called an ambulance. But he kept on crawling until he was in the middle of the road, ready to flag down an oncoming car. Suddenly, a car came out of nowhere and hit the brakes to a screech. A man got out.
“My God, what happened to you?” The man leaned down.
“Get an ambulance.” Rupert croaked as he attempted to get up
“Hold on there, let’s get you sitting down. Is this your house? It’s probably safer to get you in there, I think
The man then lifted him and brought him to the front porch.
“It’s locked.” The man said. “Do you have a key?”
“Pocket.”
“Hold on, let’s put you down on this chair.”
“Nooo!” Rupert cried out. It was too late. The ambulance arrived, and so did Gerald. But too much time had passed, and once again Rupert was trapped.

“Where were you?!” Rupert yelled.
“I’m sorry, brother. I had to finish work,” Gerald explained, shrugging. “What with the baby and all. It’s hard to juggle everything.”
“Then what good are you.” Rupert waved his hand.
“What did you just say?” Gerald demanded.
“You heard me!”
“Ok, that’s it!” Gerald yelled. “For the last year I’ve been running around, tending to your every whim, and this is the thanks I get?”
“I got you a house, Gerald.”
“You got me a house, not out of the kindness of your heart, but because you needed me. Out of your own selfishness.”
“How dare you say that to me, ‘this is the thanks I get.’ You live comfortably, don’t you? You’re not like me. Some kinda circus freak to marvel at on the news.”
“Well, why should I devote my life to taking care of my brother every second of the day? It was like this before the chair, and it’s definitely like it now.”
“BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M IN THIS CHAIR!”
“… No. You don’t-”
“It’s true. You got me this gift. You insisted that I sit in it. It was your idea.”
“That’s not fair,” Gerald said softly, shaking his head. “You can’t possibly blame me for this. You told me you liked it! Neither of us knew this was going to happen!“
“And yet, it did. And now I’m stuck here for another year. Thanks to you!”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to be, then fine, I’ll go.”
“Good, go!”
“Goodbye, Rupert.” Gerald walked away.
“Fine! See if I care. Matter fact! I hope I never get out of this chair! I hope I stay in this chair till the day I die! How about that!” The only response Rupert got was the sound of the cicadas.

And that’s exactly what he did. Seasons went by. Halloween had been and gone. Rupert’s spite had outgrown his muscle strength, so he got a live-in housekeeper to get him up and around every Halloween before eventually getting tired of it. Year after passing year, he remained seated. Rupert sat in his chair for Christmases, family holidays, his 35th birthday, his father’s funeral. Gerald decided that, to stop this friction, he would be the first to talk. He was flat-out ignored. The last time Rupert saw him was at his mother’s funeral. By then, Gerald had two kids going into kindergarten and a third on the way, but Rupert still ignored him. That was the last time they saw each other.

Years turned into decades, decades turned into forgotten memories. And by that point Rupert had forgotten what his life was like before the rocking chair. He watched all the kids in the neighborhood move out and start their own families. He watched houses change, and the soccer field he once revered was bulldozed, with an apartment building built on top of it. He didn’t live life; he existed in one. Now, in his early eighties, he was still sitting there… with a blanket wrapped around him. A couple of kids on bikes rode past his house and heard him shouting something.
“Gerald.” He bellowed out. “Gerald?! Where’s Gerald!”

Gerald had been dead for the last ten years.

So now then I had asked what are we so she said Best Friends.... Now when we are so close best friend (maybe for my side) she start ghosting me...and talking to another guy... she stops talking to me As same as what she had done with her old friend... Moral of the Story: Do not believe in any girl Every girl is a Bit8h... I have more to say but I do not know where to start or end just a summery and the girl was so sweet I like her but just a friend... And I will be happy for her if she get a bf or be in relation but it does not mean you cutoff with me