12.12.12

Have you ever wondered what it means to be alive?

Is it being young and full of energy?

Is it having enough money to never check the bill?

Or is it knowing, with certainty, that you are loved by someone?

If that’s what life is, then I couldn’t be more dead.

Today is December 12th, 2012.

The last day of this century where the day, month, and year are all identical.

Well, if you ignore the “20” in 2012.

A rather special day, isn’t it?

I give it a 2 out of 10.

That makes it three awful days in a row.

Today is the day she broke.

The slow, inevitable breakdown I saw coming but chose to ignore.

What was I hoping for? A miracle?

Some divine force that would convince Mira to stay with her miserable boyfriend?

I feared this day the most—because I knew I had no choice but to agree with her.

But now that I have, I feel like I’ve lost everything.

Mira was my first love. The kind of beautiful that never tried too hard. She didn’t wear loud colors or chase trends. Her hair was always a little messy, like she had better things to do than tame it.

She wasn’t perfect. God, no. She was impatient. She could be cold in the exact way that left you needing a blanket and not knowing why. But she never lied. Never pretended.

And maybe that’s why I don't deserve her—she was honest enough to leave, and I wasn’t brave enough to stop her.

Now, all I have left is my dream.

But what good is a dream when it doesn’t put food on the table?

I’ve seen—no, begged—every publisher in town. And out of town.

No one wants to publish my novel.

I look in the mirror and watch myself becoming a stranger with each passing day.

"Are you even a good storyteller?" I ask myself. Every. Single. Day.

Being bad at something you love is the worst kind of heartbreak.

And slowly, the stress begins to eat away at you.

The grey hairs sneak in.

The landlord bangs harder on your door.

You start hearing things you never wanted to hear:

“Get a real job.”

“I’m sick of this.”

“Stop being selfish.”

"This isn't meant for you."

And before I knew it, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Honestly, I don’t even know how I’m going to survive tomorrow.

But right now, my mind is blank.

Not a single thought in it.

The room looked as broken as I did.

Crumpled papers covered the floor like fallen leaves.

Notebooks lay open with half-sentences trailing into nothing.

The blanket twisted around my legs like chains.

My eyes drifted lazily to a pencil resting near my hand.

I reached for it and brought it to my chest.

“I wish I was brave,” I whispered.

The pencil hovered above my throat.

“Brave enough to quit this life."

My hand trembled.

“Or brave enough to abandon this stupid dream.”

I tried to throw it away.

But it slipped instead, clattering against a notebook beside the bed.

I exhaled deeply. “I wish I could start over.”

After lying there for what felt like hours—though the clock hands barely moved—I finally sat up. The room still looked like a crime scene, but I didn’t care.

I grabbed my blue notebook, the one with creased corners and coffee stains, and tucked a black pen inside its spine. I needed air.

Opening the door, I was hit by the cold winter breeze.

I walked.

Down the cracked pavement, past closed shops and flickering streetlights. The winter sun hung low, casting long, tired shadows. I noticed some familiar faces on my way, but decided to admire the pavement instead.

The library stood like a relic at the end of the road—its sandstone walls weathered and cracked, ivy clawing up the sides like nature trying to take it back.

As I pushed open the heavy door, the scent of paper and quiet hit me like a wave. The librarian, an old woman with wiry grey hair and a perpetual frown, looked up from her desk.

She nodded. "You're late today."

I forced a smile. “Rough morning.”

She didn’t press.

I made my way to my usual corner—wedged between two towering shelves that felt like protective walls. I sat down on the wooden bench, its surface worn smooth by time, and opened my notebook.

Blank page.

I stared.

The breakup kept unspooling in my mind like a film I didn’t want to watch. Mira’s voice. The sight of her walking away. I couldn't escape either.

I scribbled lines I couldn’t read.

Then—

A tremor. Barely noticeable, like the building took a breath.

I looked up.

The ceiling lights flickered. Dust rained down like salt. Books trembled on their shelves. People began to murmur—some stood up, confused, others stared upward in alarm.

Another shake. Stronger.

The lights went out.

In slow motion, I saw the ceiling crack open above me. A deafening groan echoed through the walls. I looked left, then right. Someone was shouting. Some were screaming. I heard the windows shatter.

My mind screamed: Run.

But my legs wouldn’t obey. I was frozen—trapped by fear, by disbelief, by the sheer absurdity of what was happening.

A book rack teetered beside me.

I didn’t even lift my hands.

It crashed down.

And then the ceiling followed, burying everything in weight and silence.

The last thing I remember... was the feeling of books pressing against my chest. My words. My dream. Crushing me.

This is it, huh? The end of thirty years of worthless existence. It felt like the entire world was laughing at me. I was ready to go. At least that's what I told myself, but deep down, I wished for a different ending.

"God, I wish I could start over."

I didn’t know it then, but that wish was the beginning of everything.

My Name is Elias. And this... is how I died.