The morning always began the same way.

  The alarm clock went off at 5:40 AM—that same grating buzz that seemed to echo inside his skull. Adam opened his eyes slowly, not because he was sleepy, but because getting up meant facing another day exactly like the last. Sometimes he felt trapped in a silent loop.

  The room was cold. The sheets were bunched up in the corner. A faint, almost bluish light filtered through the window, barely managing to cut through the gloom. For a few seconds, he just stared at the ceiling in a state that wasn't quite exhaustion, nor sadness. It was… emptiness.

  He finally sat up. To shake off the fog, he walked to the bathroom.

  Washing his face, brushing his teeth, putting on the same pair of work pants and a button-down—it was all done on autopilot. He was hardly present.

  On his way to the kitchen, he grabbed his phone. A notification lit up the screen:

  Instagram — Aiden posted a photo.

  Aiden was his friend; they had known each other since childhood. They had been through a lot together, but today they lived separate lives. Aiden had moved to the other side of the city, and between their schedules, they didn't talk as much as they used to.

  Adam opened the photo on impulse.

  The picture showed Aiden holding his son, his wife smiling beside him, with perfect natural light streaming through the window. The happy little caption, filled with emojis, felt almost naive.

  “Perfect morning with my loves ????”

  Adam closed the app before he even finished reading.

  It wasn't envy. It was a mix of irritation, weariness, and a feeling he didn't like to admit—inadequacy. As if everyone else had found their place except him.

  He grabbed a couple of slices of bread, popped them in the toaster, and started the coffee. The strong aroma filled the kitchen as he sat at the table—a table made for two, but which for a long time had only served one.

  While sipping the bitter coffee, he looked at his phone again, hesitating. He thought about texting his father, Herman—maybe a quick "good morning." But he gave up on the idea. His father always replied with phrases that were either too short or sermons that were too long. It wasn't comforting. His mother, Marta, would have replied with affection, but she was gone, killed in a car accident. He didn't let himself think about it much; it always brought that tightness in his chest that he pretended didn't exist.

  He finished his coffee, rinsed his mug, and headed out.

  The air outside was damp; the sky was still brightening. The drive to the factory was always the same: start the car, face the empty avenues, wait for the lights to change—a strange sensation of living the same day over and over. Adam drove without music, the low hum of the engine the only sound in the car.

  He arrived at the plant shortly before 6:40 AM. The massive metal gate was already open, and the industrial roar swallowed everything. Machines, trucks, hurried voices. There, life never stopped—but it never changed either.

  Thomas, his supervisor, was checking a clipboard near the entrance.

  “Early today, Fletcher?” he asked, without looking up.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Yeah,” Adam said with a slight nod.

  “I need you on line three. We’re short-staffed,” Thomas informed him matter-of-factly, already turning to bark an order at someone else.

  Adam simply nodded and headed inside.

  The familiar smell of burnt oil, grease, and heated metal took over. The constant roar of the machines was almost deafening, but over time, it had become a strange kind of silence—because no one there truly heard each other.

  He put on his gear, took a deep breath, and began his shift.

  Line three was moving fast, which meant more manual labor. Pick up the part, rotate it, fit the pin, test it, place it in the box—then repeat. Each repetition seemed to remind him that his life functioned the same way: predictable, mechanical, with no room for anything new.

  The guys beside him were chatting. Laughter occasionally mingled with the metallic clatter. Adam glanced over sometimes, not because he wanted to join in, but because he wanted to understand what came so easily to them. Even mundane conversations felt distant, as if he were a frequency no one else could tune into.

  The morning dragged on, pulling at time like a weight tied to his feet. Adam just took deep breaths, trying to ignore that suffocating restlessness growing inside him.

  It felt even worse when he stopped to think: the day was only just beginning.

  The morning shift passed slowly. When the break finally came, Adam stayed back to get ahead on some pending tasks, hardly noticing when the clock hit noon. He only realized it when Thomas appeared beside him.

  “Fletcher,” he called out, dry as ever. “Go eat. Keep up with your line so we don’t fall behind.”

  Adam pulled off his gloves, cracking his aching fingers.

  “All right,” he replied.

  “Don’t be late. We don’t need any more trouble this month.”

  In the cafeteria, he sat alone, as usual. His tray held a scoop of lukewarm mashed potatoes, some mystery meat with gravy, and a side of canned corn. All around him were full tables—people talking loudly, telling weekend stories, complaining about traffic or the game. Lives that, somehow, seemed to work.

  He took out his phone just to kill time.

  He scrolled aimlessly until he felt that uncomfortable sensation again. It was as if the rest of the world was living in full color while he… merely existed. Aimless, with nothing to fight for.

  When he returned to the assembly line, the fatigue felt heavier. He just wanted the day to end.

  The afternoon followed the same pattern. The same movements. The same noises. The same feeling of being trapped.

  At a certain point, Adam's line finished its run. Thomas came over again.

  “Fletcher, finish catching up on the backlog,” he said, walking past. “And… watch yourself. Michael is patrolling the floor today.”

  Michael H. Washington, the general manager. A bald man with a thick beard, recognizable from a mile away. Rigid, direct, with the posture of a man who only cared about the bottom line. Adam just nodded.

  A few minutes later, he saw the boss passing between the lines, observing each workstation intently. As he approached, Adam’s skin crawled—not out of fear, but out of habit.

  “Everything up to code?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Adam replied.

  The boss gave a short, indifferent nod and kept walking. He was the kind of man who saw numbers instead of people.

  The afternoon dragged until the shift finally ended. Adam threw his gear in his locker and left the factory. The sun was low, painting the horizon a bruised orange, and a cold wind brushed against him.

  In the parking lot, another driver bumped into his shoulder without even apologizing. Adam didn’t have the energy to react. He just got in his car.

  The drive home was silent. No messages, no calls. No one waiting.

  He arrived home close to six. On the porch, he picked up a rolled-up newspaper and went to the door. It creaked as he opened it—he always told himself he’d fix it, but he never did.

  Inside, the darkness was the first sign that nothing had changed. He flipped the light switch, kicked off his shoes, and slumped onto the sofa.

  He stayed there for a long time… just still.

  The house was too big. The silence was too loud.

  He turned on the TV for some background noise and opened the paper. An article about a disappearance in Columbus caught his eye:

  > Cleveland Daily News — Regional Section

  > Date: August 12, 2025

  < Missing woman in Clintonville found in state of shock.

  COLUMBUS, OH — After a four-day search, police confirmed the reappearance of Lillian B. Grace, 32. The woman had been reported missing after failing to return from work last Friday.

  Lillian was found disoriented in a wooded area near North High Street, less than two miles from her home. Witnesses reported she was walking alone, repeating incoherent phrases.

  Authorities stated there was no evidence of drugs or alcohol, nor signs of physical assault. However, the victim was in a state of severe panic, unable to recognize family members. Lillian is currently under psychiatric observation at Riverside Methodist Hospital. The investigation remains open. >

  Before he could process it, his phone buzzed. A text from Aiden.

  > “Dude, remember that trip I told you about? I got it! Taking the family at the end of the year!”

  Adam typed back: “Wow man, that’s awesome. Congrats. Is it that cabin you mentioned?”

  > “That’s the one. Finally pulled it off lol.”

  > “Haha, nice.”

  A few seconds of silence, then: > “But look, bro, I don’t think we can hang out on the 18th. Had some scheduling issues on this end.”

  Adam let out a long sigh.

  > “No worries, man. We’ll catch up some other time.”

  > “For sure. Thanks for understanding, and sorry about that.”

  > “Don’t mention it. Talk soon.”

  Adam tossed the phone aside and leaned his head back. He felt frustrated, mostly because he had seen it coming.

  To avoid the spiral of his own thoughts, he ordered a sandwich through an app. While he waited, he stared at the TV.

  When the food arrived, he ate right there on the sofa. Then he took a shower to wash off the factory grease and changed into clean clothes. He went back to the TV until his eyes felt heavy.

  It was past ten when he finally crawled into bed. Lying there, he felt the weight of the day pressing down on him.

  And in that absolute silence, the question returned—insistent, almost painful:

  “How much longer?”

  Adam took a deep breath… closed his eyes… and drifted off, ending another day of his life.