That day, when I lost everything (part 1)

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”
— George Bernard Shaw

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
— Oscar Wilde

   Smoke swirls through the air, thick and choking, pressing against the dark sky. The flames flicker lazily over the wreckage, devouring what’s left. The heat pulses, too close for comfort, but distant enough that I can still feel the cool bite of the earth beneath me.

   I’m on my back, staring up at the void. It’s all just black now—no stars, no moon, just endless darkness. I can’t remember the last time I saw a sky that didn’t look like it was dying.

   The ground beneath me is hard and jagged, digging into my skin through my clothes, but it barely registers compared to everything else. Pain echoes through every part of me, deep and pulsing, like a constant reminder that I’m still here. My arms refuse to move. My legs feel like they don’t even exist anymore. I don’t have the strength to push myself up. So I lie there, breathing in the ash, wondering if maybe this is it.

   So, here I am. The thought drifts through my mind, distant and oddly calm. Flat on my back, in the middle of a mess I can’t even recognize. Guess this is where I get to be—just me and the fire.

   I think about saying something profound, something that makes sense of this mess. But instead, I just let out a weak, shaky breath. My name is Sora, I think, almost as an afterthought. No last name needed. Just Sora, alone and in ruins.

   I was someone. The thought lingers, a ghost of a memory. I had people—people who mattered. Or at least, I thought they did. Now it feels like all that’s left is the pain and the ash.

   I try to move, but my body laughs at me. Each attempt is met with sharp, unrelenting pain. I cough, tasting the acrid smoke, and let my head roll to the side. The flames crackle nearby, a harsh reminder that the world is still burning, even if I’m not sure why I’m still here.

   Why not give up? I wonder.

   Why fight when it all seems pointless? Who knows?

   But something inside me refuses to quit. There’s a stubborn part that won’t let go, a fragment of defiance that clings to life even in the face of this endless darkness.

   Keep moving. I tell myself, though it feels more like a plea than a command. I try to push myself up, but my arms feel heavy and useless. Every motion sends waves of pain through me. I manage to get to my elbows, then to my knees, the world spinning with every movement.

   I’m still here. The thought is both a comfort and a curse. I take a deep, shaky breath and force myself to stand, unsteady and swaying. The fire’s heat brushes against my skin, but I force myself to focus on the devastation around me.

   I know what you’re thinking. Here I am, sprawled out on the ground in the middle of a burning wasteland, and you’re probably wondering how I ended up like this.

   Well, if you’re curious, I guess I owe you an explanation. I’m going to tell you about my past—the real story behind this mess. Maybe it’ll make sense of all this destruction. Or maybe it won’t. But either way, it’s about time someone heard it.

   So, let’s start from the beginning...