Adrian Lorne had always been described with the same word promising. Teachers said it with a pat on the shoulder, relatives with a toast made in his honor, and strangers who barely knew him repeated it as though they were announcing a prophecy. Even as a child, he absorbed it like sunlight, unsure if it warmed him or burned.
Everyone believed Adrian would be someone. Everyone including Adrian expected greatness. But expectation has a strange weight: it never rests where it should. It sits on the chest, not the shoulders, making breathing harder than carrying.
At twenty-three, Adrian sat in the cluttered corner of his small apartment, a half-finished project sprawled across the table an online course he had promised to finish. The open laptop glowed with a paused video lecture. It had stayed paused for two weeks.
He stared at it, as though waiting for the screen to tell him what to do.
He had started the course with excitement, determination, and the belief that this time would be different. It wasn't. Like the others, it had slipped from excitement to dread to avoidance. Adrian shut the laptop, pushing it gently as if afraid it would accuse him of failure.
Outside, the city hummed, cars passing in an unpredictable rhythm. Inside, Adrian felt stuck in a silent vacuum, muffled and slow.
He picked up his phone, scrolling through the achievements of his old classmates promotions, engagements, new businesses, glowing captions brimming with pride.
He wished he could feel happy for them.
Instead, he felt himself shrinking.
Adrian had once imagined a clear path for himself. As a teenager, he dreamed of becoming a software engineer, then a writer, then a graphic designer. He could have been good at any of them; he truly believed that. But each dream demanded commitment, and commitment was where Adrian found the wall.
He could start anything. He could imagine everything. But finishing that required a certainty he never had.
His parents rarely asked about his current job anymore. They spoke cautiously, as though touching a bruise they couldn't see.
"Are you eating well?" his mother asked, her voice soft but tight.
"Mm-hmm." Adrian nodded, looking everywhere but at her. He didn't want to disappoint her. But he also didn't want her to know he hadn't gone to his shift that day. Or the day before.
He muttered excuses like cracked tiles covering a widening hole.
His father simply cleared his throat. "You know you can tell us if you're struggling."
Adrian nodded again. Lying felt easier than telling the truth that he didn't know what he wanted, or why he couldn't do anything even when he wanted to.
Weeks passed in a blur of unfinished tasks.
He signed up for a gym membership went once.
He bought ingredients to cook healthy meals let them expire.
He drafted an application for a promising new job left it unsent.
Every failure, no matter how small, added another stone to the invisible pile on his back. He walked slower. Spoke quieter. Saw fewer people.
Adrian wasn't lazy. He knew that. He tried every day he tried. But the harder he tried to do something meaningful, the more terrified he became that he couldn't. That he never would.
One morning, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. He felt heavy, though nothing was on him.
"Just get up," he whispered to himself.
His body didn't move.
"Get up."
He felt a tremor in his hands anger, frustration, shame.
Finally, he forced himself to stand, legs stiff and unsteady like someone learning to walk again. He moved toward the bathroom, gripping the doorway for balance.
He splashed water on his face. It didn't wake him.
The mirror reflected a man who looked both too young and too exhausted. Dark circles sat under his eyes like fading bruises. His shoulders slumped as though they no longer believed in him either.
Adrian went outside that afternoon, hoping the sunlight might scatter the cloud around him. He walked through the bustling streets, weaving through strangers who all seemed to know exactly where they were going.
He envied them.
At a nearby café, he stopped when he spotted two of his former classmates laughing loudly at a table by the window. One wore a crisp suit; the other held a tablet filled with what looked like architectural plans.
They looked like the future he was supposed to have.
Adrian turned away quickly, afraid they might see him before he figured out what to say.
He walked aimlessly until the sun dipped lower, until the crowds thinned. Everything around him buzzed with movement and purpose. He felt like a ghost drifting through a world that didn't need him.
That night, he sat alone at the kitchen table. The room was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead. A stack of unopened letters lay in front of him bills, reminders, warnings.
He picked one up, hesitated, and put it down again.
He didn't open any of them.
The quiet pressed him from all sides. It felt like being buried under soundless soil.
Adrian pressed his hands to his face.
"I'm trying," he whispered, voice cracking. "Why isn't it enough?"
He waited for an answer.
Nothing came.
Outside his window, life continued cars, voices, birds calling into the night. But inside his chest, something fragile trembled, threatening to finally break.
And for the first time, Adrian feared that maybe everyone had been wrong.
Maybe he was never promising.
Maybe he was simply unfinished and already falling apart.
Adrian didn't remember falling asleep at the kitchen table, but he woke there, cheek pressed against the cold surface. His neck ached. His back protested as he pushed himself upright. Morning light crept through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, illuminating the dust floating in slow motion through the air.
He blinked at the room it somehow looked even smaller in daylight.
His phone buzzed. A message.
He ignored it.
Another buzz. Then another.
He finally checked: three unread messages from his manager.
Where are you?
You're not on the schedule anymore if you don't come in today.
Adrian?
He stared at the words until they blurred. He thought about responding an apology, an excuse, something but the longer he waited, the heavier the phone felt in his hand.
He turned it face down.
His job wasn't a dream job. It wasn't even a career. It was temporary, something he had taken to stabilize himself until he figured out what came next. But "next" had never come, and now even the temporary pieces of his life were slipping away.
He buried his head in his arms.
Later that afternoon, Adrian forced himself outside again. Not because he felt better—but because staying inside made the pressure in his chest unbearable, like the walls were tilting inward.
He walked with no direction, the city buzzing around him. A busker played violin on the corner, the melody soft and aching. Adrian paused, letting the sound wash over him.
Music reminded him of being young his mother humming while cooking, the songs his father played in the car on long drives. Back then, the world felt enormous and full of chances.
He wondered when the world had started feeling like a maze instead.
As he continued down the street, he noticed a sign posted on a community center door: Free Workshop Starting Fresh: Goal-Setting for Young Adults.
He almost laughed. It felt like the universe making a bad joke at his expense.
Still… he stopped.
The workshop was happening in 10 minutes.
His hand hovered near the door handle. He imagined walking inside, taking a seat, admitting to strangers that he had no idea what he was doing with his life. He imagined the embarrassment, the panic.
He stepped back.
He wasn't ready.
He kept walking, guilt trailing behind him like a shadow.
By the time he returned home, the sky had dimmed into evening. The apartment was still, silent in a way that felt unnatural like it was holding its breath.
He sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Adrian wasn't sure anymore.
The phone buzzed again his mother this time, asking if he wanted to come over for dinner.
He typed out a reply: Sure. I'll be there. And then deleted it.
He typed: Sorry. Busy today. Maybe next week. Deleted that too.
Instead, he put the phone down without answering.
He felt exhaustion settle beneath his skin, deeper than tiredness more like a hollowing.
He wondered if his parents were disappointed. He wondered if they already knew he was drifting away from the life they imagined for him.
He wondered if he would ever feel normal again.
Hours later, as the city fell into night, Adrian found himself sitting by the window. Streetlights cast a warm glow across the pavement, people walking by in pairs or groups talking, laughing, living.
He touched the glass with his fingertips.
He wanted to be part of the world outside. He wanted to feel like he belonged somewhere.
But he felt like he was watching life from behind an invisible barrier.
The night breeze slipped through a narrow crack in the window frame, brushing against his skin. It should've been refreshing. Instead, it made him shiver.
He hugged his arms around himself.
For the first time, a quiet thought surfaced not loud, not dramatic, just a whisper.
What if this emptiness never goes away?
He closed his eyes, and the silence felt heavier than ever.
This was the first fracture in the foundation beneath Adrian's promising future a small crack, spreading slowly, quietly, unnoticed by everyone but him.