Ethan Cole had imagined death many times.
In some versions, it came with regret crashing down all at once.
In others, there was fear—panic clawing at his chest as he begged for more time.
Reality was far more cruel.
Death was quiet.
He lay on the cold floor of his studio apartment, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him, eyes half-open as the ceiling stared back. A thin crack ran across the plaster, something he had meant to fix years ago but never bothered to.
The television was still on.
A late-night talk show droned meaninglessly, the host laughing at jokes no one in the room was listening to. The flickering light illuminated empty beer bottles, scattered receipts, and a stack of unopened letters—bills he no longer cared to read.
No one would find him anytime soon.
That thought didn't scare him.
It only confirmed what he already knew.
I really was alone.
At forty-six, Ethan's life could be summarized in a few sentences—and none of them were impressive.
He wasn't homeless.
He wasn't addicted beyond repair.
He wasn't even particularly unlucky.
He had simply… drifted.
In his youth, people had called him potential. Teachers said he was smart but lacked drive. Friends said he was kind but forgettable. Women said he was safe—never dangerous, never exciting.
And so, he learned to wait.
He waited to become confident.
Waited to be successful.
Waited for life to finally start.
Years passed quietly while others moved forward.
Careers. Families. Achievements.
Ethan watched from the sidelines, telling himself tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow never came.
A weak laugh escaped his lips.
"So this is what happens," he whispered hoarsely, "when you never choose."
His chest tightened—not painfully, but heavily, like something pressing down from the inside. His breathing slowed, vision dimming at the edges.
Regret surfaced then. Not sharp. Not explosive.
Just endless.
Missed chances.
Words never said.
Risks never taken.
"If I could do it again…" he murmured,
"I wouldn't live like this."
The room blurred.
The ceiling disappeared.
And without ceremony, without meaning—
Ethan Cole died.