I don't know why I'm writing this.
Maybe because it's easier to put things down on paper than to say them out loud. Maybe because once something is written, it feels more real. Or maybe less. I can't tell anymore.
My life is… good. That's the word people use.
A good job. A good home. A loving wife. Children who are smart, capable, and kind. I listen to them talk about their futures with such certainty, and every time, something quiet settles in my chest. Pride, I think. Or something close to it.
They deserve someone better than me.
At work, I feel like I'm always a step behind. Everyone else seems faster, sharper. They catch things I miss. They speak with confidence, like they already know they belong there. I follow along, nod when I'm supposed to, contribute when I think it's safe to. Sometimes it feels like I'm running just to stay in the same place, while everything else keeps moving forward.
No one ever says anything. That's the worst part.
They smile. They nod. They thank me.
I can't tell if they're being polite, or patient.
I think about the future too much. About the day I'll make a mistake I won't be able to smooth over. About the moment someone younger, quicker, more capable takes my place without even meaning to. About how easy it would be to replace me. How little noise it would make.
Sometimes, when I'm sitting at my desk, I imagine myself disappearing and the day continuing exactly as planned.
When I come home, my wife asks how my day was. I say, "fine." The kids talk about school, about friends, about plans they're excited for. They look at me like I'm solid. Like I'm dependable. Like I'll always be there.
I don't understand how they can look at me like that.
I feel like I'm borrowing this life. Like one day someone will tap me on the shoulder and tell me there's been a mistake. That I was never meant to be here. That I stayed too long.
So I try harder. I work longer. I think more.
None of it changes how heavy everything feels.
I don't want to be exceptional.
I don't want strangers to admire me.
I just want my family to look at me and feel proud.
Not because they love me.
But because I want to feel like I deserve it.
If there's a way to become that kind of person… even just once.
Then I'll take it, no matter the cost.
…
I hear it before I see it. A heavy, unbroken rain, like the sky pressing its weight straight down onto the world. When I lift my head, the clouds above are dark and swollen, smothering what little light there might have been. Everything feels dimmer beneath them. Smaller.
My gaze drops.
Black umbrellas bloom across the ground, clustered together in uneven rows. People stand shoulder to shoulder, dressed in dark suits, polished shoes sinking slightly into the wet earth.
I'm there too.
I realize it slowly, the way I seem to realize everything now. The weight of a suit on my shoulders, it sits on me like it belongs there. I'm taller than everyone around me, even here. I stand out without trying.
The rain doesn't touch me.
It slides over the umbrellas instead, dripping from their edges like a barrier, separating me from what's happening at the front.
A muffling cry cuts through it.
It was raw and heart-breaking, pulled from someone who can't hold it in any longer.
I follow the sound.
At the front is a tombstone. New. The soil around it is dark and uneven, freshly turned. No umbrellas there.
A woman kneels in the mud, clothes soaked through, hair clinging to her face. Her hands claw at the grass as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders shake violently as her voice cracks open.
"I've always been proud of you," she cries. "I was always proud of you." Her words stumble, "Because of you… because you were there… we were able to live. We were happy. We were free."
The children beside her try to hold themselves together. One fails. Then the other. Their tears spill freely, mixing with the rain, faces twisted under the weight of something too large for them.
Around me, the umbrellas tremble. Breath hitches. Grief spreads quietly through the crowd.
That's when I feel it.
A presence beside me. Close enough that I don't need to look to know it's there. The air feels warmer. My breath catches as I turn my head.
He's standing next to me.
A man in an office suit, rain-soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. His face is twisted as he cries openly, shoulders shaking. He doesn't wipe his tears. He doesn't look away. His eyes stay fixed on the tombstone.
As I stare at him, something inside me pulls tight, like a thread being drawn.
I raise my arm. It hesitates halfway, suspended in the rain. Then I let it fall, resting my hand gently on his shoulder. He flinches, then leans into it, just slightly, like he's been holding himself upright for far too long.
The words leave me without effort.
"You've led a grand, meaningful life, Tobin," I say quietly. "And your desire has been granted. You are free now."
He turns to me.
Through his tears, he smiles.
"Thank you," he says. "For this opportunity."
His body dissolves into faint sparks of light, drifting upward. They rise past the umbrellas, past the clouds, until the sky swallows them whole.
The rain keeps falling, and the people keep crying.
And I remain where I am, standing still, my hand empty at my side, with the lingering warmth of someone who finally believed himself.