The wind stirred fallen leaves at the street corner, sweeping dust into a silent waltz beneath the lamplight—like echoes of a dream long past.

He stood shrouded in the depths of night. Behind him, neon lights and restless noise stretched endlessly; before him, his shadow trailed long and alone.

Once, passion had burned bright—but time had ground it into ash. Now, only weariness and numbness breathed quietly within him.

He looked up. The city loomed like a cold, monstrous beast, devouring every fragile soul it touched.

Softly, he whispered, “Perhaps to escape the ordinary and embrace the unknown… is the only way to truly feel alive.”

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• On April 16, 2014, the Copa del Rey final was held at the Mestalla Stadium in Valencia. Real Madrid’s Gareth Bale performed his iconic “run off the pitch” move, sprinting past Barcelona defender Marc Bartra and scoring the winning goal, helping his team defeat Barcelona 2-1 to claim the title.

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• Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.

He’s not terrible. He’s diligent, punctual, honest, and never procrastinates. But he’s not liked.

He doesn’t understand why.

It’s not that he can’t get things done—he just doesn’t compete. He doesn’t pander, doesn’t echo others. He won’t fake a smile at drinking parties, nor toss out pretty nonsense to fill the silence. Before he speaks, he always pauses, as if weighing whether the word is worth saying.

People like that aren’t popular.

He knows this. But he doesn’t want to change. He’s not narcissistic, not angry—just quietly observant. He knows most people aren’t better than him, just better at packaging themselves—wearing labels like “hardworking” and “gets along well” on their foreheads. He doesn’t envy them. He simply doesn’t fit.

It’s not the era’s fault—it’s his. He’s outdated. Like an obsolete connector that no longer plugs into the current system.

His job is stable, his meals are simple, his life is quiet. He’s never late, never throws others under the bus. His face is always calm—never anxious, never elated. He rejects hustle culture, but he’s not into “lying flat” either. He just stands there, watching others sprint, watching them crash and bleed and still scream, “It’s worth it!”

He doesn’t speak up. His social media is a shell—no selfies, no hot takes, no opinions. He hasn’t bought into funds, hasn’t picked up a side hustle. It’s not that he doesn’t understand—he just chooses not to join. To him, it all feels like a massive stage play where everyone’s fighting for the spotlight, and he simply refuses to get on stage.

So, he’s a failure.

A worthless, unusable, structurally redundant person.

He hasn’t been fired. He hasn’t been ostracized. He’s just been quietly removed from anything that matters. Skipped over in meetings, missing from promotion lists. His presence is accepted as background noise—not even worth dissent.

Sometimes, he tries to fit in. Mimics the language—says things like “Great work today” or “I think this is a solid direction.” But afterward, he feels sick. He scrubs his hands for a long time, like trying to wash off something dirty.

He’s not incompetent—just too clear-eyed. Once you see the truth behind the “rules,” it becomes impossible to keep playing the game.

He knows exactly what this era values—emotions that update hourly, flashy takes that draw attention, performative hard work that screams for applause. He has none of that. He’s cold, slow, and honest. His voice ticks like an old clock, always outpaced by the acceleration of modern life.

He’s not a loser. He’s just… unnecessary. Like a part that doesn’t meet spec, quietly set aside. He blames no one. He knows it’s not their fault, and not really his either.

It’s just that this era doesn’t need people like him.

He’s struggled. He’s tried to change—read self-help books, doom-scrolled short videos, forced himself to keep up with trends, joined team-building activities. Those days were exhausting. Like forcing an old keyboard to run a new OS. Eventually, he stopped.

He no longer tries to align with anything. Every day, he gets up, eats, works, and takes the long way home to avoid others. His room is like a simulation pod—no light, no sound, no connection. He just sits there, listening to his own breathing.

He’s stopped writing, stopped trying to explain. He knows now: he’s not “special,” not a “misunderstood genius,” not some “hidden gem.”

He’s just a failure, in the most textbook sense.

Not because he’s fallen, or slow, or lazy. But because he refuses to give up parts of himself just to carve out a place to survive. And this system doesn’t accept whole people.

One evening, as usual, he walks into the subway station. The crowd flows quickly, like a river curving around a rock. He is that rock.

No one notices. No one will remember.

He stands there, still—strangely out of place amid the current. He looks down at himself, like inspecting a redundant organ.

This world doesn’t need him.

But he’s still alive. Still standing.

And in the quiet of his mind, only one sentence remains:

“I’m not bad—just not qualified.”

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• On December 18, 2019, in a match between Juventus and Sampdoria, Cristiano Ronaldo leapt 2.56 meters to score a stunning header at the Stadio Luigi Ferraris in Genoa — a moment now regarded as iconic.

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• The reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself.

“Stephen and Anna”

Stephen’s apartment was in an old building from the late 19th century, seven stories, no elevator. The fatigue of life piled up with each creaky step he took, each ascent felt like a reminder that he was sinking into an indescribable predicament. Sometimes, he thought about climbing the stairs to improve his health, but in the end, he always compromised. Life, like his body, seemed to quietly surrender.

Anna, on the other hand, was outgoing. She could easily become the center of attention in any crowd. Every time she returned from a business trip, she brought with her a burst of energy and stories, like a breeze, carrying warmth and light. Her optimism easily dispelled the dark clouds in Stephen’s heart. Although Stephen wasn’t much for talking, he would always listen to Anna chat about everything, her voice the only color in his monotonous life.

However, Anna’s frequent business trips often took her away, leaving Stephen to face the empty apartment alone. When night fell, loneliness and emptiness flooded in like an uncontrollable tide, and Stephen felt as if his existence was slipping away, leaving his heart a blank canvas. The occasional sound of a cat’s meow would break the silence, offering a distant form of comfort.

On the drive home, he often felt his eyelids heavy, almost unable to keep them open. The city lights blurred in his eyes, like a painting slowly fading out of reach. His phone alarm was set for seven or eight different times, each one reminding him: wake up, run, read, work. He knew all too well that these alarms were just ornaments, not tools to change his life.

The office felt like a cold stage, with everyone putting on a facade. The smiles on the surface were just masks for the indifference beneath, and it made Stephen feel even more distant. He became increasingly silent, avoiding unnecessary conversations with his colleagues. When he did speak, his words were blunt and brief, just trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Dialogue had become a burden, not a bridge for communication.

Occasional “concern” from his family felt like a moral shackle, constantly pressing down on his shoulders. He knew they meant well, but their concern often felt suffocating, as though every word carried with it great expectations and responsibilities. Whether it was “You should get married,” “Why haven’t you changed jobs yet?” or “You need to think about your future,” these words felt like a heavy stone pressing against his chest.

Despite all of this, Stephen continued with his daily routine. He found himself immersed in social networks, scrolling through irrelevant information, as if this could temporarily numb his mind and prevent him from confronting the troubling questions that had been haunting him.

The morning commute was still long, and outside the car window, the city slowly woke up in the dawn light. When he reached the office, he would put on his headphones as usual, shutting out the noise of the world. In these moments, he could find a bit of peace, undisturbed by the daily trivialities. It was in these small moments that he found solace—his own time.

That night, he kept playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” on repeat. When he heard the line: “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all,” it was as if he had received some sort of permission, permission to be sad, permission to not explain. That feeling was like a silent proclamation, as if all the pain could be understood, even accepted.

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Epilogue:

One morning, Stephen once again put on his headphones and climbed the stairs. With each step, his body felt heavier, but he kept going. He didn’t have a clear goal, nor any expectation that things would change; he was simply walking, silently moving forward. Perhaps, this was all he could do—the only thing he could do.

He heard the sound of a cat meowing, and stopped for a moment. Without speaking, he softly replied, “I heard you.”

Then, he continued up the stairs.

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• A Champions League moment between Chelsea duo and Man United’s No.7.

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• Few things are impossible to diligence and skill.