The good part of the day was over. Five pure hours of unconscious bliss, gone in an instant. The bed still felt warm, but he felt cold as he came back to the real world. He forced himself to go back, but it was a futile effort. The ceiling fan spun slowly above him. Its sound was neither comforting nor disturbing. It was simply there.

His eyes opened. The curtains leaked pale light into the room. It was morning. Morning meant only one thing. He had to get ready. His body rose, slow and unwilling, as if dragged upward by invisible strings. The tiles were cold under his feet. He moved because he had to. He always had to.

He didn’t like going to the office. As a matter of fact, he didn’t like coming back from the office either. The only exciting moments in his existence came in the world of dreams. It was rather unfortunate that he couldn’t sleep for all 24 hours.

The mirror reflected him back without care. The same tired eyes. The same faint shadows under them. He brushed his teeth. He washed his face. He buttoned his shirt with fingers that remembered the sequence better than his mind did. He wore shoes that had long since lost their shine. They carried the weight of countless mornings like this one.

At the office, the air was still, the lights too bright. PPTs waited for him. A computer hummed to life. He sat. Hours began to slip past; he felt all of them and none of them. He started working, doing the same thing he had done yesterday and would do tomorrow. Slides filled the screen. Numbers, charts, bullet points. They stacked on top of each other until they blurred together. Conversations drifted in the background, words without shape.

Lunch arrived. A plate of food that carried no taste. He chewed, swallowed, finished, and returned. The hours stretched again, quiet and heavy. The clock ticked only forward, never back.

Evening came. People packed their bags. They spoke of home, of family, of plans. He stayed for a while, letting the room empty out before him. He took his bag, rose, and walked back along the same path as always.

The city under evening lights was no different from the city in the morning. The same roads, the same shops, the same wires hanging low. He walked past them with steady steps, shoes scraping the pavement, carrying him without thought. Crowds thinned as he reached the quieter lanes. The sound of traffic faded to a distant hum.

His room waited in silence. He dropped his bag on the floor. He sat for a while, staring at nothing. Time moved, but he did not. Eventually, he lay down. The mattress knew him well. The ceiling disappeared as his eyelids closed. Slowly, gently, the noise of the world grew distant. The edges of everything softened. His breath slowed. He was gone.

For a few hours, there was peace again.