He left the office on a tuesday, mid–shift, mid–email, mid–sentence...no goodbye. Just a quiet exit, like slipping out of a room where no one noticed he’d entered.

Outside, the city moved with precision,buses breathing schedules, people pacing with purpose, lights blinking like metronomes. He walked without aim, past towers of glass and metal, until he reached a crumbling patch of ground near a construction site.

That’s where he saw them.

the ants

Dozens of them, locked in discipline, carrying a broken wing of something larger. Their movements were Perfect. Purposeful. not one of them paused to question the weight.

He watched them for a long time.

He thought about all those deadlines. about paychecks. About the way he forcefully smiled in meetings and deleted drafts of poems no one would ever want to read. He thought about how tired he was,not the kind of tired that sleep solves, but the kind that settles in your bones when your life stops belonging to you. The kind that loyally stays. The kind that is weirdly comforting

At some point maybe yesterday, maybe before or maybe right now, it had happened.

the tunnel had replaced the sky..

the purpose had replaced the self..

and the chain had replaced his spine…

He remembered drawing a sunset as a kid. Burning toast at 2 a.m. Writing things that no one asked for. Laughing without needing to deserve it. He missed that. he spent hours thinking about what could've been.

He didn’t go back that week. Said he'd been sick.

Didn’t go back the next either.

Then one day he woke up early, ironed his shirt, and then again... he returned

No one really noticed he’d been gone.

He apologized for the delay.

Said he’d caught something bad.

They nodded. Gave him new deadlines.

He got back to work.

he sat by the window and watched the same ants,maybe not the same ones, but close enough...carrying something torn and lightless.

Then he looked down at his laptop’s screen, his hands

They were typing again.

Dear Reader:

type all u want ,just..know that it isnt the end.

He left the office on a tuesday, mid–shift, mid–email, mid–sentence...no goodbye. Just a quiet exit, like slipping out of a room where no one noticed he’d entered.

Outside, the city moved with precision,buses breathing schedules, people pacing with purpose, lights blinking like metronomes. He walked without aim, past towers of glass and metal, until he reached a crumbling patch of ground near a construction site.

That’s where he saw them.

the ants

Dozens of them, locked in discipline, carrying a broken wing of something larger. Their movements were Perfect. Purposeful. not one of them paused to question the weight.

He watched them for a long time.

He thought about all those deadlines. about paychecks. About the way he forcefully smiled in meetings and deleted drafts of poems no one would ever want to read. He thought about how tired he was,not the kind of tired that sleep solves, but the kind that settles in your bones when your life stops belonging to you. The kind that loyally stays. The kind that is weirdly comforting

At some point maybe yesterday, maybe before or maybe right now, it had happened.

the tunnel had replaced the sky..

the purpose had replaced the self..

and the chain had replaced his spine…

He remembered drawing a sunset as a kid. Burning toast at 2 a.m. Writing things that no one asked for. Laughing without needing to deserve it. He missed that. he spent hours thinking about what could've been.

He didn’t go back that week. Said he'd been sick.

Didn’t go back the next either.

Then one day he woke up early, ironed his shirt, and then again... he returned

No one really noticed he’d been gone.

He apologized for the delay.

Said he’d caught something bad.

They nodded. Gave him new deadlines.

He got back to work.

he sat by the window and watched the same ants,maybe not the same ones, but close enough...carrying something torn and lightless.

Then he looked down at his laptop’s screen, his hands

They were typing again.

Dear Reader:

type all u want ,just..know that it isnt the end.