The Winners

He hadn’t always been like this. Back then, he loved the small things - mornings, birthdays, the smell of breakfast in summer. That feeling faded slowly, the way it does for most people. Something anyone might feel as they grow older. Something else had grown inside him, not a feeling, but the absence of one.

Now, the record was still spinning when he opened his eyes - slowly, without urgency. A soft clicking sound could be heard through the room as the needle circled the final groove. While the song was ending on the record player, he took the pin off his favourite record and placed it back into its sleeve, carelessly now. It was early, too early for anyone to be awake, but he hadn’t really slept. Maybe two hours. Maybe less. Time, these days, just simply passed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet pressed to the wooden floor, elbows resting on his knees. A familiar weight settled on his shoulders, a weight that had settled slowly over the years, without drama or surprise. The light coming through the blinds was flat and grey, winter light. For a while, he just sat there. Listening to nothing. Not thinking. Not yet, his usual only moment of peace. A cigarette had been left half-smoked in the ashtray. He picked it up, lit it again, and watched the smoke dance toward the ceiling. The taste was flat, but at least it made him feel something. The apartment was quiet, an occasional creak in the pipes could be heard, and the fridge hummed softly downstairs. There were three coffee mugs on his desk, each in its own stage of abandonment.

His eyes drifted across the room as if seeing it for the first time: the upturned photo frame on the nightstand, the books stacked chaotically near the heater, the open notebook with a page half-ripped. Eventually, he reached for the pen, gifted to him years ago by someone he hadn’t spoken to since. The letter had been on his mind for weeks, maybe longer, probably years. He didn’t want it to be dramatic or poetic or manipulative. Just true. Just… honest, in the way that felt possible for him. The paper trembled slightly under his hand as he wrote the first words: “For anyone reading…” He stared at the line before him. What followed wouldn’t be easy, or so he thought. He got up again, opened the window. The air outside was colder than expected, and it filled the room with a sharp kind of clarity. He let the cigarette rest between his lips as he leaned forward out the window, elbows locked, breathing slowly. Cars passed below, small and meaningless. The world moved on. And then, a thought: “I am not real. I don’t know if I’m looking into the abyss, or already far in it. Reality seems like a construct I don’t even remember anymore.”

Where the words had come from, he did not know. Only how true they were for him. He stared into nothingness, then turned back to the desk. The pen waited. Slowly, he wrote, pausing often. The pen scratched softly against the paper, the sound filling the silence. Between each line, he stared at the page, unsure if what he wrote was truth or just memory repeating itself. He wrote of seeing the world, meeting kind people, loving and hating. About the endless search for something to hold onto. Years spent trying to find a reason to hope, to stay, while working, rebelling, and drifting. But one thing had always been clear: this life was never his. The words came easily now, almost without thought. “I’ve always known I wouldn’t see old age. I made peace with it a long time ago. I just want you to know, I tried.”

Outside, daylight grew heavy. The apartment had grown darker, though the clock still showed morning. He couldn’t really tell anymore. He remembered watching the world blur past, how it always felt like someone else’s life out there. For a long time, he hadn’t felt alive. He wrote that too: "My body has become a vessel for thoughts I no longer recognise. Wherever I am, I am not there.” He stood by the window again. People passed below, moving in patterns that did not make sense to him anymore. Their voices felt like another language entirely. “After wearing so many masks, you no longer know who you are,” he wrote. “And maybe there was never anyone there at all.” He sat back down. “Don’t think I never felt happiness,” he wrote, “I have, or I think I have. I know I’ve felt love, but I just can’t imagine it anymore.” The memory of his friends came uninvited - laughter, the smell of beer, the simple easiness of it all. He saw himself among them, smiling just enough to blend in. It was always temporary. “Because of them, I stayed,” he wrote. “Because of them, I felt unconditional love. And even though it hurts saying goodbye, I think they’re the ones who’ll understand the most.”

He put the pen down. Finished. The room had gone completely quiet. Only the sound of his breath remained. He folded the letter carefully, tracing the edge with his fingers. It was strange, he thought, how calm and peaceful it all felt. The day had now faded. He sat there, the letter folded neatly before him, nothing written on the envelope as if it belonged to no one. Around him, the room seemed smaller, the walls closer, the air slower. He stood, walked once around the room, then stopped by the bookshelf. Some books leaned sideways, the shelves slightly bowed. He let his fingers drift across the spines, dust catching under his nails. Books he once loved, now unread for months. He took one last drag from his cigarette, put it out, and looked toward the window. He thought of them - his friends, his family, the people who had kept him here longer than he ever planned to stay. A faint, almost tender smile appeared on his face.

His final written sentence went through his mind, “Please go on. You all deserve so much.” He laid the letter on the bed, beside the old record and the cup of ashes. He closed the door softly behind him. And in that quiet, before everything stopped, one final thought surfaced - calm, certain, and clear: “I have tried.” 

Author: Lars Wolfs