Sloth isn't just lying still. It's watching your dreams die and not even weeping for them.
Rohit had read that line once—probably in a book he never finished—and now, it clung to him like the damp humidity in the room, refusing to leave.
He felt it in his gut. Deep. Gnawing. Heavy.
Sitting at the edge of his bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, he ran a hand through his messy, unwashed hair. His fingers lingered at the roots, pressing into his scalp like he was trying to dig something out—guilt, regret, purpose, anything. The only thing he found was silence.
His eyes drifted across the dimly lit room—walls stained with old watermarks, shelves sagging under the weight of untouched books, biscuit wrappers crumpled and strewn like fallen soldiers of failed motivation. A ceiling fan spun sluggishly above him, clicking with every turn. The air was still, and yet it carried a stench of staleness and neglect.
Rohit's gaze settled on a dusty photo frame sitting at the corner of his cluttered desk. He leaned forward, reached out slowly, and picked it up. It was a class photo from his bachelor's degree—he in the second row, smiling, his posture straight, eyes sharp, back when ambition still lived inside him.
A bitter smirk crept onto his lips.
He had attended one of the most prestigious universities in the country. He'd made it. The golden boy from a small town. The pride of his family. The one who was supposed to escape.
And yet, here he was.
Unemployed. Stagnant. Blacklisted.
"If only I hadn't made that mistake," he muttered under his breath, thumb tracing the frame's edge. "If only I'd kept my mouth shut in that goddamn meeting…"
A moment of anger passed across his face—lips pressed tight, jaw clenched. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that old familiar emptiness.
In the heat of the moment, one rash decision. One emotional outburst. One black mark on his record—and suddenly, every major company ghosted him. Emails unanswered. Interviews canceled. No one wanted someone with a "disciplinary concern."
That left only one road open: government service.
And even that path was crumbling. Positions were disappearing. The old systems were being replaced. The world was shifting—mana had seen to that.
He exhaled, rubbing his face with both hands before slumping back onto the bed. The mattress let out a defeated squeak beneath his weight.
At one point, he'd considered joining the military. Not out of patriotism, but escape. He thought maybe discipline and structure could burn away the baggage he carried.
But then mana appeared.
The military froze all new recruitments. They were reassessing. Adapting. Evolving. Only the top-tier awakened were being recruited now—mana users who could crush tanks and sense enemies across borders.
Combat roles were out of reach. Rohit didn't have mana. He barely had momentum.
"Maybe I could still try for a non-combat role," he mumbled, staring at the ceiling. "Something. Anything."
Because if he stayed like this much longer, he'd become a burden.
And that was a fate worse than death.
His parents. Not perfect. Not saints. But good. Honest. Hardworking. They'd sacrificed everything so he could climb. So he could break free of the gravity that held them back.
And now?
He was crashing back down.
The shrill ring of his phone broke the silence. He winced. Blinked. Sat up with a grunt and reached across the bed to pick it up.
Caller ID: Ma.
His thumb hovered over the green icon for a moment. He took a deep breath, wiped the expression off his face, and pasted on a smile she wouldn't see.
Then he answered.
Mother: Hello?
Rohit: Hello, Ma.
Mother: How are you doing, Rohit?
Rohit: I'm fine. Just… studying.
Mother: Oh, did I disturb you? I should've called later...
Rohit: No worries, Ma. I needed a break anyway. How are you?
Mother: I'm okay, just wanted to check on you. Did you eat dinner? Oh! And your father said he's transferred the money to your account.
Rohit: Take a breath, Ma. I'll eat now, don't worry.
Mother: This late? Rohit, I keep telling you—eat on time. It'll affect your health in the long run.
Rohit: Okay, okay. I'll eat. I'll call you tomorrow.
Mother: Alright, beta. Bye.
Rohit: Bye, Ma.
The call ended. The screen faded to black. Rohit stared at the reflection of his own face on the glass.
Then, without grace, he fell back onto the bed, one arm draped across his eyes.
"Man, this is a shit feeling," he whispered into the stale air.
He laid there for a while, letting the weight of the silence press down on him again.
"I don't want to feel like shit anymore."
He shifted, sat up slowly, and stretched his back. His joints cracked.
"Okay. Tomorrow," he said, voice hoarse.
He stood and walked toward the stack of untouched books, brushing dust off one of the UPSC guides.
"I'll start tomorrow."