Writing Challenge

Part 1

The sun slips through the blinds. Thin lines of light on the floor. Morning, I think. It has to be. I check the clock. The hands are stuck. 8:15. I should get up.

I walk to the window. The street is quiet, too quiet. I should feel something, urgency maybe. But there’s nothing. The phone on the dresser—it’s dead. Forgot to charge it, I guess. There’s always something I forget.

Outside, I drift down the stairs. My feet on the pavement, the same route as always. But the people—they move past me. They wave, but not at me. Never at me. I should say something. Make them see me.

My mother’s voice, harsh. Maybe I said something, something I shouldn’t have. I walked away. I always walk away. I’ll fix it tomorrow, I told myself.

But tomorrow never comes.

I walk into the café. The bell above the door doesn't chime. Probably broken. The barista doesn’t look up. She calls out orders. Not mine. I wait. No one notices. I reach for the cup on the counter.

I freeze. Maybe I don't feel like coffee today.

The car. The rain. I was driving. I couldn’t see. Headlights too bright, too close. I hate the rain.

The street again. Faces pass by, but no one looks. I walk by the bookstore. Closed. Has it been closed this long? I stare at the window. My reflection—blurred. I lift my hand.

Something is wrong. I should feel wrong.

My father. Silent. Disappointed. I should’ve called him. Just once more. I thought there was time. There’s always time, right?

No. There isn’t.

The house. My childhood home. I stand at the door. Someone else lives here. Laughter spills from the windows, but it doesn’t feel like it should. I lift my hand to knock, but stop. What would I say anyway?

The world moves without me. I’m stuck. I should feel something. Panic, maybe. Anger. But all I feel is this weight. A sinking feeling.

I swerved. I lost control. I couldn’t stop. I tried, but I couldn’t. And then it was cold. So cold.

I walk back to my apartment. But there are people inside. Strangers. A man, greying hair, leans by the window. A woman sits on the couch. They’re looking through my things. My things.

I yell. They don’t hear me. I yell again, louder. Nothing.

Then I see it. The picture on the mantle. My picture. My name. A date I can’t process. A date that shouldn’t make sense. But it does. Flowers everywhere. Too many flowers.

My hand shakes. I reach for the frame. It falls. The glass shatters. Still, no one notices. No one ever notices.

The crash. The sirens. I was on the ground. I couldn’t move. Lights everywhere. Voices, but none for me. No one called my name. No one looked at me. I wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t important.

I see it now. I’m not here. Not really. I wasn’t here the whole time.

I don’t belong.