It was a bright, sunny day. The city buzzed with life—people hurrying, caught in their routines, phones in hand, laughter on their lips. The world moved fast.
But in the middle of it all, a man moved slowly.
Like a ghost drifting through a world that no longer saw him.
His steps were heavy. His eyes were hollow. As if life itself had wrung him dry.
After wandering for what felt like hours, he found a bench in the park and sat. Around him, children played. Couples laughed. The breeze rustled the trees above. The sounds of the world swirled around him—but he sat, untouched by any of it.
"My life… it was never easy," he whispered to himself. "I tried. I really did. But now… it's over."
A memory rose like smoke in his mind.
The hospital room was cold. Sterile. Too clean, too quiet.
Ian sat across from the doctor, who flipped through a report in a heavy folder. His expression tightened with every page.
"Doctor," Ian asked, his voice trembling, "is everything okay? Are the reports fine?"
The doctor paused. He set the file down, folded his hands, and looked Ian straight in the eye.
"Mr. Ian… the tests show you have blood cancer. It's already in Stage 3."
The world stopped.
Ian stared blankly at him.
"Stage 3?" he echoed. "No… maybe there's been a mistake. You could've read it wrong, right?"
The doctor's eyes didn't flinch.
"I wish I were wrong. But I'm not. I'm sorry. Based on the current progression… you may have up to two years left. Maybe less."
Two years.
Just two.
A cold, invisible hand wrapped around Ian's chest. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
"I had so many things I wanted to do…"
Back in the garden, he sat frozen on the bench. His fingers trembled. The sunlight couldn't reach the cold settling inside him.
My name is Ian Clifford, he thought, almost as if saying it could anchor him to reality.
Son of James Clifford—the industrial tycoon. Elina Clifford—a once-famous actress, now head of Clifford Productions. Brother to Leon—the miracle surgeon. Alisha—the unstoppable lawyer.
And me?
The youngest. The failure. The invisible one.
People looked at their family and saw perfection. Power. Glamour.
But behind those tall, glass doors was a house filled with silence. Not warmth. Not laughter. Just distance.
He'd never really belonged. He wasn't brilliant like Leon. Not fierce like Alisha. Not dazzling like his parents.
He was the leftover piece in a perfectly arranged puzzle.
He had spent his whole life trying to earn their love. Their recognition. Even their attention.
And now, with death staring him in the face… he still wanted it.
That night, he stood outside their bedroom door and knocked.
His mother opened it. She looked surprised—like seeing him was unusual.
"Yes, Ian? Did you need something?"
Before he could speak, he heard laughter behind her. His father. Leon. Alisha. Glasses clinking. Music in the background. They were celebrating something.
He hadn't been invited.
He hadn't even been thought of.
The pain in his chest was worse than anything the doctor had described.
Still, he forced his voice to stay steady. "If you all have a little time tomorrow morning… there's something I'd like to say."
He didn't wait for her answer. He couldn't. The laughter behind her was too loud, too cruel. He turned away.
Maybe they called after him. Maybe they didn't.
He didn't check.
Because in that moment, the truth hit him harder than any diagnosis ever could.
I've spent my entire life screaming silently for people who never bothered to listen.
He ran to his room, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
His chest felt like it was caving in. Not just from the disease—but from everything he had tried to bury for years.
Was it the cancer causing the pain?
Or was it heartbreak?
He collapsed onto the floor, gripping his sides as something sharp twisted through him. It felt like claws digging in. Organs folding into themselves.
He was choking on nothing. Gasping in silence.
All alone.
He reached into the drawer with shaking hands, found the pills, dropped some, and managed to take one.
Then he waited.
Alone.
The pain dulled. Not gone—just numbed. A silent warning of worse to come.
"Temporary relief," the doctor had said.
The pain will only grow. The pills just buy you time.
And what was he buying time for?
No one had asked if he was okay. No one noticed his pale face. No one heard the tremble in his voice.
He had read somewhere that in moments like this, family support was the most important thing.
But not for him.
He wasn't one of them—not in the ways that mattered.
So he made a decision.
He would leave.
If his time was limited, he wouldn't spend it waiting for scraps of love in a house full of strangers.
He would find something real. Even if it was small. Even if it was fleeting.
The next morning, they all sat at the breakfast table, immersed in silence. Reading the newspaper. Sipping their coffee. Busy, perfect, polished.
He sat down. Heart pounding.
He didn't expect much. But a part of him still hoped.
Maybe they'd notice the change in his voice. The swelling around his eyes. The way his hands shook.
But no one said anything.
His brother stood to leave.
"Wait," Ian said, softly.
Leon looked at him, brow raised.
"I'm going somewhere. I might not be back soon. So I—"
Alisha cut him off.
"So you want money?" she snapped. "That's what this is about? Seriously, Ian? You're wasting our time."
He stared at her. Shocked. Hurt. Speechless.
Her eyes were cold.
Last night, she'd laughed freely with them. Now, she looked at him like he was an inconvenience.
The weight of her words crushed something inside him.
He didn't finish his sentence.
Didn't say another word.
He just… shut down.
One by one, they left.
Their chairs scraped back. Their shoes clicked down the hall. They were gone.
And once again, Ian sat alone.
Coffee cold.
Toast untouched.
Just him—and the ticking of the antique wall clock, a reminder that time was slipping through his fingers.
It was always like this.
Always.
This time, he finally accepted it.
He walked to his room.
Packed a small bag. A few clothes. Enough money to get by.
He left his phone on the nightstand.
I don't want them to call when it's too late.
He walked out the front door and paused.
The house stood tall behind him. Pristine. Perfect.
But it had never been home.
The air was warm. The morning sun kissed his skin. A soft breeze lifted the leaves.
From a street nearby, he heard a child's laugh.
And for the first time in days, Ian smiled.
Just a little.
He turned away, and walked down the street.
No goodbyes.
No looking back.
With whatever time I have left, he thought, I will find something real. Something worth remembering.
And maybe—just maybe—he'd find a reason to keep smiling.