Life's a fucking pattern, isn't it? On the strangest but basic level, it's all patterns. Equations have set rules. People follow set habits. Even the mot horrifyingly aggressive boss in an otherwise unfair game has a move set it follows religiously. Everything's got a rhythm, a sequence of actions that define our very existence.From the way we act to the way reality acts on us. We're built on patterns; ones we don't even choose half the time.
My pattern's no puzzle.
I wake at 6:30 if I stuck to the ol' reliable noodles route last night, 7:30 if I rolled the dice on a gas station burrito. My stomach growled the second I come to, reminding me last night was two sketchy burritos, spiced with desperation and coffee dregs.
That also meant I was late for work. Again.
"Meh," I mutter.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, tracing the growing stain spreading like a streak while waiting for some sudden burst of motivation to descend upon me. Maybe a divine intervention?
A spark of self loathing?
Anything that might convince me that getting out of bed is worth the trouble.
The ceiling just remained a ceiling.
"Right. Fuck you too."
Clara Voss, 36, divorced, teacher, game critic, and living proof you can scrape by on instant noodles, cheap meat, endless coffee, and sheer spite. That spite was what got me out of bed most days. My life isn't much to look at, but it has the advantage of being predictable. I know exactly how it's going to disappoint me, and that sort of consistency has its charms.
The bathroom comes next. Noodles mean a quick visit; burritos mean I'll be negotiating with my digestive system for the next twenty minutes. Judging by the state of my stomach, I began to say a silent. Prayer.
I haul myself out of bed. The mattress creaks beneath me, protesting the sudden loss of its favourite corpse, and I shuffle toward the bathroom through air that smells faintly of damp clothes and yesterday's takeout.
'Gotta clean this dump someday.'
I make the promise with the same conviction I bring to every other important decision in my life, then promptly forget about it. My stomach growls again, warning me of the storm approaching.
I shuffle into the living room yawning, rubbing sleep from my eyes and trying to walk off the fire in my ass. At my third step, already adjusting to the cold floor, my foot hit a patch of bristles instead of linoleum just as I failed to suppress a yawn.
I looked up and came face to face with a dark haired intruder, wearing an oversized faded red shirt that read Art Is Chaos in peeled block letters. Her dark hair was wound into a knot held by a plastic paintbrush, bracelets clinking against her wrist as she flinched at the brunt of my yawn.
"Your morning breath should be registered as a bio weapon"
I blinked the crust from my lashes, my mind empty until my mental exhaustion took over and warped my expression into an unamused glare.
"Breaking and entering," I said, my voice thick with sleep. "I could have had a gun."
"If you had a gun, you wouldn't be able to find it Clara. Instead you would find four different health violations and probably a dead body in a corner growing blue fur." She didn't look up, just yanked the broom from under my foot and kept it moving, her shoulders pivoting with the efficient grace she used to wipe the bar floor . "Besides, your deadbolt clicks into the jam like a wet sponge. A strong breeze could break in."
She was herding an impressive archipelago of empty takeout cartons , crumpled utility bills, and dried tea bags into the corner by the trash can. I silently prayed one of those eviction notice wasn't in that pile
"Regardless" I cut it " Sneaking into someone's house to clean is next level OCD young lady"
"Clara, you'd drown in your own trash if it wasn't for me." She nudges a carton away from the leg of the sofa. "They'd find you under a pile of ramen, dead for months with sodium being the culprit."
"There are worse ways," I muttered, reaching for a mug. The ceramic was chipped along the lip, and the tannin rings of coffee made it look worse for wear but it was my favourite mug.
Okay, it was my only mug but that's irrelevant
"This place could kill you, Clara. Ever seen Final Destination?" she adds. "You'd trip and get three-year-old chopsticks in your eyes."
"Ha, fucking hilarious," I sigh, dragging my feet toward the kitchen. I made my way toward the sink, catching the hem of my sock on a curling seam in the flooring. I stumbled, caught the edge of the laminate counter, and paused while my heart found its tempo. Lila stopped sweeping, leaning both forearms against the broom handle an snickers, grabbing a chopstick from a pile and miming an eye-stab.
'Annoying but tolerable,' I think.
She's twenty-six, ten years younger than me, and possesses the sort of enthusiasm that makes me suspect she's either never experienced a genuinely bad day or has been lying about it for years. She has art dreams, plans for the future, and enough energy to pursue both without first requiring three cups of coffee and a long period of quiet contemplation. Simply put, she's the opposite of me. Like the sun. She stings to look at. She gets excited over colours. She has opinions about paintbrushes. She once spent an entire evening explaining why a particular shade of blue made her think about childhood, and I still haven't forgiven her.
I stopped wondering why she bothers with me ages ago. It's one of those questions that doesn't have an answer I particularly want to hear. Besides, she helps around the apartment, brings food when she can, and occasionally prevents me from living entirely on noodles, like the breakfast she left on the clean side of the counter; burnt toast, lumpy omelette, a goddamn masterpiece by my standards. I definitely didn't have that in my freezer
"Don't look at it like that," she said, tapping the broom against the floor. "It's edible, which is a miracle considerin what you had in the freezer. I even used the skillet with the handle that doesn't wobble."
I pulled a fork from the drying rack without wiping it and cut into the egg. "I didn't ask for a maid."
"Good, because my hourly rate would bankrupt your pension." She propped the broom against the wall, pulling her sleeves up to her elbows. The humor faded around her mouth, replaced by that slight, tight pull between her brows that always preceded a favor. "Hey,I'm covering the double shifts at the cafe today. Can you watch Nico for me, he has mock exams and he won't go to the library."
"Hey, I'm on night shifts all week, so I can't come by. Can you watch Nico tomorrow? You guys have lessons anyways?"
I chewed the toast, letting the hard crunch fill the kitchen. "He hates the library because they don't let him keep his earphones in."
"He hates the library because he hates people, Clara. He's thirteen and he acts like he's forty-five and filing his second divorce." She watched me, waiting for the refusal.
I noticed the look in her eyes and hardened mine " What's with that tone?"
"You can't tell me you haven't noticed that he's like a mini you, I'm quite concerned"
"It's not my fault, I don't even want the kid around!" I said, scraping the plate clean. 'You should find someone else to watch him then' I thought but didn't say out loud. I knew how much she struggled with that.
"Come on, you guys have lessons anyways, you just gotta make sure he makes it to the next morning" She said, pleading with puppy eyes
I sighed as I stood to my feet " Fine, I'll watch him"
"And be a proper role model" She added
"Don't push it" I yelled, making my way back into my room. Lila's brother Nico's probably why she sticks around. Kid's a genius but doesn't fit in at school. Antisocial as hell. So, I tutor him on what he misses in class.
Mutual benefit—strongest bond there is.
By the time I braved a cold shower and found a pair of leggings that was wearable, Lila had moved on to wiping down surfaces with a flourish. I grab my satchel from the chair, checked that my phone is in the right pocket, and head for the door.
Lila whisled as I passed by "I've seen it a million times but the switch from bum clara to teacher clara is quite impressive"
"I'll take that as a compliment." I said, throwing on my shoes. " I gotta atleast pretend to be a functioning member of society for my job"
"Yeah, you'd get fired in a heartbeat if they knew the kind of person they had teaching their children. Don't forget..."
I left that biting remark behind me and pulled the door shut before she could assign me any additional responsibilities.
Outside, the air biy at my lungs as I took a deep breathe and used it to stiffle everything that wasn't productive to my work mentality into my familiar pit in my stomach. I turned and saw the bus already arriving at the stop a distance away
"Fucking----wait!!"
I ran and the driver must have caught sight of me in the mirror and decided that I was suffeciently pathetic enough to hit the brakes long enough for me to scramble aboard. I collapse into the nearest seat, breathing hard. The upholstery is sticky, and for my mental health, I chose to focus on the passing scenery instead
My trademark day had begun. At least I got on the bus this time
My day job is as a teacher, although teaching algebra to teenagers is an exercise in futility. I write a topic on the board. Explain it. Work through multiple examples and then ask the class if anyone has a question. Thirty pair of eyes stare back at me with the vacant resignation of people forced to learn when they'd rather consume brainrot.
Like clockwork
One boy was drawing something on the surface of his desk with misplaced attention. A girl near the window has her head propped against her hand, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond the glass. Two others are whispering behind their textbook, and I'm reasonable certain the boy in the back row has been asleep since I started talking.
I turn back to the board, rather willing to continue in silence when I remembered their performance determines whether I have a roof over my head or not
"Anyone?"
Silence. Can't say I blame them. I would also love to be anywhere but here. However, I have a job to do. The chalk continues to squeak against the board as I do what I do best, break down the topic into four key steps they could identify and repeat for any question, show them how and why, and demonstrate this pattern for three different questions. By the time I turn around, at least a good number of the class look like they got something
Then I give them a problem to solve. That should fluster the little shits and give them something to practice with, like handing a new toy to a kid after showing him how it works. The room fills with the scratches of pens and the occasional whisper for the next thirty minutes, while I walk between the desks, glancing at their work, correcting a sigh here and a misplaced number there. One student had copied the question incorrectly, while another arrived at an answer so impressively wrong that I considered retiring for the day. I stop beside the girl near the window, my usual last stop during my class rounds. She had written two lines and abandoned the rest.
"Where did you get stuck?"
She looks up, startled, despite this being a common occurrence. "I don't know"
"That's usually where people get stuck, yes."
She glances at the paper, then back at me.
I took up space beside her.
"Show me what you do understand."
She hesitates before pointing at the first line. We work through the problem together, slowly enough that she can follow the reasoning. When she finally reaches the next step on her own, her expression changes.
There. A little spark of recognition.
For half a second, I remember why I became a teacher.
Then the bell rings, and the moment vanishes beneath the scrape of chairs and the rush of students eager to escape.
I gather the papers left on my desk and look at the board. Half the class will forget what I taught them before dinner. The other half will remember just enough to resent the next test. It felt like both them and I were just doing the bare minimum to fulfill our roles .
'Not exactly what a teacher should be thinking.'
But I'm human, too.
Break time is supposed to be my reprieve. A few minutes away from the classroom, a cup of coffee, perhaps a chance to sit somewhere without having to keep up this pretense so hard. I make it halfway to the staff room before the voices reach me.
Laughter. A familiar voice. Someone telling a story I can't quite make out.
Then my name.
I stopped two paces from the door.
Laughter came through the wood, followed by that sudden, artificial dip in pitch that happens the moment a specific person's name gets dropped. They were talking about me again. They always did lately—the rumors about the divorce, the whispered remarks about my clothes, the fact that I didn't attend the Friday mixers.
I'm not particularly surprised. I haven't exactly been winning popularity contests among my colleagues lately. There was a time when I made an effort to get along with them, back when I still believed being pleasant might make people less inclined to dislike me. I always had a feeling they enjoyed talking about me behind my back but I couldn't be upset, could I?
This was karma emoting right in my face
I didn't have the stomach for the confrontation. I just pushed the door open, let the silence drop over the table like a lead weight, poured half a mug of sludge under their careful, averted stares, and walked right back out to my desk, apathy shielding me from their gossip.
It was funny, once upon a time, I was the one leading discussions like that
Back in the teacher's space, I close the door, take a seat behind my desk, and pull out my phone. Whatever they're saying about me, I doubt it's anything I haven't heard before
Instead, I take a sip of coffee.
It's lukewarm.
"Of course."
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.
Every damn day.
The final bell shrieks through the corridors, and I've never been more grateful to hear a noise designed to make me want to tear my own ears off.
The students pour out of the classroom. I collect the last few worksheets, shove them into my satchel, and check the time.
Late afternoon.
The bar opens later, but I need to get there before Lila starts asking questions. I have exactly enough time to make the journey if I don't get distracted, miss a bus, or find myself involved in some entirely unnecessary conversation.
"Ms. Voss?"
I glance up.
Carl stands near the doorway with a smile that makes me want to disinfect my eyeballs. He's one of those men who mistakes persistence for charm, and every conversation with him feels like being trapped in a tutorial you can't skip.
"Carl."
"You heading out?"
"No. I'm planning to spend the night here."
He laughs as though I've made a joke specifically for him.
I sling my satchel over my shoulder.
"See you around."
His expression falters. He opens his mouth, probably to suggest coffee or dinner or some other activity I would rather undergo dental surgery than entertain.
I don't give him the opportunity.
Every damn day but never today creep
By the time I reach the street, I've already forgotten about him.
The bar is a short walk away, tucked between a convenience store and a shop that seems to sell nothing but phone cases. Its neon sign flickers above the entrance, one letter occasionally blinking out before struggling back to life.
I find the whole thing strangely reassuring.
At least the sign and I have something in common.
Inside, the air smells of beer, grease, and old wood. The regulars have already claimed their usual spots. One-Eye Steve is arguing with a man who looks as though he's been losing the same argument for the past twenty years. Someone at the far end of the counter is nursing a drink with the solemnity of a man attending his own funeral.
These are my people.
Worn-out drunks. Dreamless hustlers. Folks who have either stopped expecting much from life or learned to hide their expectations beneath enough alcohol to make the distinction irrelevant.
Nobody here asks me to smile.
Nobody cares if my clothes are a little wrinkled or my hair looks like I've been dragged through a hedge. Nobody wants to discuss my teaching methods, my career prospects, or the importance of maintaining a positive outlook.
It's a relief.
I slide onto a stool. The wood sticks faintly against my palm, and I wipe my hand on my leggings.
Lila appears behind the counter and sets a beer in front of me.
I take a long drink.
The cold bitterness settles my stomach, like a breathe of fresh air.
"Long day?"
"Everyday is a long day, Lila."
I lower the bottle and give her a look. She stares at me
"Jeez. Chill out. I haven't forgotten about Nico and I'm only drinking this one"
She folds her arms.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Then you shouldn't have looked at me like you found a stray puppy in the rain licking at a puddle ."
"Very funny."
"Thank you. I work hard at it."
She gives me the sort of look that suggests she has several things she would like to say and has decided, for the sake of our friendship, not to say any of them.
A wise woman.
I finish the beer, slide off the stool, and head for the door.
"Leaving already?"
"Can't be that drunk when meeting godzilla."
Her expression softened, she knew what that means. Most days, I'd stay until eight, drink enough to make the trip home interesting, and spend an hour trading insults with Steve. But Tuesdays have their own little ritual.
I need just enough liquid courage for the next stop.
The hospital.
________________________________________
The hospital's sterile halls reeked of antiseptic and carried a deep chill that never failed to enter my bones every time I crossed its doors, The nurses at the reception desk recognize me. One offers a small nod as I pass; another gives me a sympathetic smile that I pretend not to notice. I don't want sympathy. I don't know what I'd do with it if someone handed it to me.
I head toward the blood donation room.
The procedure is familiar enough that I barely have to think about it. I roll up my sleeve, settle into the chair, and offer my arm to Hannah, the nurse assigned to me today. She ties the band around my upper arm, searches for a vein, and inserts the needle with practiced efficiency.
A sharp sting.
Then the slow pull of blood into the bag.
Hannah talks while she works. Something about the weather, a colleague who has called in sick, and a new policy the hospital is apparently introducing next month. I nod at the appropriate intervals, though most of her words pass straight through me.
"She awake?" I ask when the bag is finally disconnected, rolling my sleeves back down.
"Always is," Hannah sighs, eyeing the blood bag. "Hasn't eaten though so she might be in a bad mood."
"How can she be mad when she's the one that refuses to eat?" I sigh as I collect my things and head down the corridor.
The walk to her room is one I've made so many times that I could probably manage it with my eyes closed. Past the nurses' station. Around the corner. Down the stretch of corridor where the lights always seem too bright. Her room is near the end, and I slow as I approach the door.
Her name is printed on the plate beside it, almost like a beware sign
I stop there for a moment.
Then I reach into my bag, retrieve my flask, and take a small swallow. The alcohol burns on its way down, but it gives me something to focus on while I force my shoulders to relax.
I practice a smile, using my fingers to arrange my face but the effort to keep it up felt more than I had in me, so I settle who the smallest of curls on my lips.
"Good enough."
I put the flask away and push open the door.
My mother is propped up in bed, her grey hair tangled around her face. The food tray beside her is untouched, the lid still covering whatever the hospital has decided constitutes a nutritious meal. She looks frailer than she did last week, though she'd probably bite my head off if I said so.
Her eyes settle on me.
"You look like shit."
"Love you too, Ma." I shot back as I slouch into the chair beside her bed. The plastic creaks beneath me.
"Why haven't you eaten? Trying to check out early?"
She snorts and looks toward the window. "If I'm stuck in here, I might as well make it quick. You'd probably pawn my bedpan for beer money."
I laugh, though the sound catches somewhere in my chest.
"Tempting." I pull the tray closer and lift the lid. Is that fucking Salmon? "Jesus Christ. They're feeding you like a queen in here."
"Why the hell are you here?" she snaps.
"Language, Ma," I sigh.
"I know YOU of all people didn't just say language"
I set the lid aside and examine the meal. There are vegetables, a small serving of rice, and a slice of lemon arranged beside the fish. I can't remember the last time I ate anything that came with a garnish.
"I can't not visit you ma" I took a piece of fish and gobble it down "Believe me, I've tried. The hospital call me like I'm a debtor"
Well, I am ...
"Well, you don't have to. I told you several times already. I don't want to see your ugly mug. Stop paying my medical fees and fuck off."
I stop moving.
She says it without looking at me, her gaze fixed on the window. Her voice is sharp, but there's something tired beneath it, something that makes the words land harder than they should.
I pick up the fork.
"Well, it's always nice to see you, Ma."
"Feeling's not mutual."
"Sure. I'm just here for the insurance money when you croak."
Her head turns.
"You little—"
I grin at her.
She glares back.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she looks away first, and I start eating from the tray because it's there and because I don't know what else to do with my hands.
This is how we talk.
No grand declarations. No tearful reunions. No apologies that might force either of us to acknowledge the years of resentment sitting between us. We trade insults and pretend they're jokes, keeping the conversation safely within familiar territory.
It's the most honest thing we have left.
I don't have to pretend I like her. She doesn't have to pretend she likes me. We can be cruel to one another in ways that would horrify anyone who overheard us, and neither of us has to explain why.
Sometimes, I wonder whether that makes us closer than most families.
Other times, I wonder what the hell is wrong with us.
Today, I settle for finishing the salmon.
My mother watches me from the corner of her eye.
"Did you come here just to steal my dinner?"
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"You're a disgrace."
"Runs in the family."
She makes a noise of disgust, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
It's gone before I can decide whether I imagined it.
I put the fork down and lean back in the chair. The hospital lights hum overhead, and somewhere in the corridor a trolley rattles past.
For a little while, neither of us says anything.
Then she speaks.
"Don't die alone, Clara."
I turn toward her.
She's still looking out the window.
The words sit between us, stripped of their usual sarcasm. I don't know what she means by them. Maybe it's a warning. Maybe it's an accusation. Maybe she's simply tired enough to say something honest and will regret it the moment I acknowledge it.
I stand and collect my bag.
"Try not to miss me too much."
She waves me away.
"Get out."
"Love you too, Ma."
I leave before she can answer.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I stand in the corridor for a second longer than necessary.
I take in a deep breathe and huff 'Guess her wish will come true. I really don't have money to pay for her treatment next month"
A complicated feeling settles in my chest, leaving me feeling numb. I push it aside.
The next step is the only thing that's important
At least, that's what I tell myself as I walk toward the exit.
"I'm home!"
I shout it into the apartment building as I wrestle with the lock. The key sticks, as usual, and I have to jiggle it twice before the mechanism finally gives.
"Shut up, Voss!" Greg bellows through the wall.
"Fuck you too, Greg!"
Another eviction notice is taped to mine, joining the pile. I snatch them, crumpling them to the floor, then pause. "yeah, fuck no," I mutter, stuffing them in my pocket, where they'll rot all week.
"Out of sight," I mutter. "Out of mind."
A familiar strategy. A proven failure.
"This place stinks."
I spin around so quickly that my heart slams against my ribs to find Nico, Lila's kid brother, standing there, backpack slung over one shoulder, and his handheld game illuminating his face. . His dark eyes meet mine, unblinking, like a tiny ghost. He'd look exactly like Lilia if he didn't frown so much
I stare at him.
He stares back.
"How long you been there?" I ask, fearfully curious.
He shrugs. "Since the bar."
He returns his attention to his game, apparently satisfied that the matter has been settled.
I groan, rubbing my temples. When the hell did I agree to babysit?
Oh, right. I forgot
"Yeah, I know that. I thought you'd wait in the bar for me"
Nico glanced up at me with a stare that called my bullshit on the spot
Wonderful.
"Get inside, kid," I mutter. At least I didn't lose the kid. That would have been an awkward conversation.
He shuffles in, sneakers silent, and I follow, less than thrilled.
Lila probably thinks she's my best friend, which is sad enough on its own, but Nico is the one I actually get along with. The kid is antisocial, snarky, likes games and has a habit of looking at people as though he's trying to calculate how much of their conversation can safely be ignored.
Lila is too loud, too colourful, and too damn interested in everything
A packet of instant noodles sits beside the stove. There are some leftovers in the fridge, though I'm not entirely certain when they were cooked, and a half-empty bottle of sauce that may or may not have expired.
I settle on the noodles.
Cooking is a generous description for what follows. I throw the leftovers into a pan that was never designed for reheating anything, add the noodles, and stir until the mixture begins to resemble food. My famous leftover styled penne.
Nico appears beside me, peering into the pan.
"What's for dinner?"
"Noodles."
He looks at the pan. "That doesn't smell like it"
"I am more than willing to let you inhale some oxygen and call it a night'
He watches me stir the mixture with an expression that suggests he would rather eat the packaging.
I point the spoon at him.
"Don't be picky."
I reach for the handle, touch the hot metal, and immediately jerk my hand back.
"Shit!"
The spoon clatters against the stove.
I cradle my finger, glaring at the pan as though it has personally betrayed me.
"Goddamn bad luck. I'd need a luck stat of two hundred just to balance this shit out."
Nico raises an eyebrow.
"Cursing's rude."
I stare at him.
"It will become your outlet when you're my age, judge me then"
I scoop the noodles onto two plates and hand one to him. He takes it carefully, his eyes moving from the food to my face and back again.
"If you don't like it, the kitchen's right there."
"You cooked this?."
"Congratulations. Your powers of observation are improving."
He sighs and carries the plate toward the living room.
I follow with mine, switch on the television, and find a cartoon playing on one of the channels. Nico settles in front of it, his game still in hand, while I return to room beside mine. It was dark, the dim lights inside barely illuminating the bed and desk enough that i can avoid them
My computer setup waits in the corner.
The monitors are dark, the keyboard neatly positioned in front of them, and the chair is exactly where I left it. The rest of the apartment might be falling apart, but this little corner remains mine. No colleagues gossiping behind my back. No hospital corridors. No mother waiting to remind me of every way I've disappointed her.
Just me and a world that doesn't care who I am outside it.
I lower myself into the chair and wake the computer.
Gaming is the last piece of my pattern, the one thing I haven't managed to ruin through sheer neglect. Five years ago, I stumbled into Halia and found something I hadn't known I was looking for. I stayed because it gave me a reason to keep trying, and somewhere along the way, trying became the only thing I was good at.
In its broken world, I could make mistakes without carrying them around afterward. I could fail, learn something, and start again. Every death had a reason. Every defeat left room for improvement. If I was willing to put in the time, I could get better.
Real life didn't work that way.
Out here, doing everything right didn't guarantee anything. People got sick. Relationships fell apart. Money disappeared. The world kept moving regardless of whether you were ready for the next thing it planned to take from you.
Halia was different.
Its cruelty had rules.
I opened the game, and the familiar landscape filled the monitor. Ruined architecture stretched beneath a dead sky, the environment scarred by whatever ancient catastrophe had broken the world before I arrived. The music rose softly from the speakers, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease.
"There you are."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
I settled into my chair and picked up the controller.
"Fucking marvel of coding."
'Fucking marvel of coding,'
A new world. A world where I'm not just a failing teacher. A world without narration, nor guide, just a broken world telling its story through mechanics. My peace, my comfort, my...
YOU DIED.
I stared at the screen, watching a mid level boss rip through me after I was more than dead.
I leaned forward, gripping the controller. The fight replayed itself in my head: the opening feint, the delayed strike, the moment I'd committed to a dodge before the boss had finished its animation. I'd seen that move before. I knew the timing.
I knew the fucking timing.
"So that's how we're doing this?"
I restarted.
The next attempt lasted even less time.
Something hot and ugly surged through me. I flung the controller onto the desk, shoved back from the keyboard, and slammed both hands against the tabletop. The monitor shook on its stand.
"FUCK!"
I grabbed the chair, already halfway through the motion of lifting it, before my brain caught up with my hands.
The chair was expensive.
I slowly lowered it.
My gaze shifted to the television in the living room.
Also expensive.
I stared at it for another second, weighing my options, then sank back into my seat and pressed my face into my shirt.
The scream came out muffled against the fabric.
It was either that or break something I couldn't afford to replace.
"Dead again?"
"Dead again?"
I jerked upright.
Nico stood in the doorway, his plate empty and his handheld game tucked beneath one arm. He looked from me to the monitor, where my character's corpse was still sprawled across the arena.
Then he looked back at me.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Jesus Christ, kid. Did you learn to walk from Tibetan monks? I couldn't hear a thing."
He said nothing.
I sighed and turned toward the screen.
"Chapters eight and nine aren't some you just beat" I said "Not with these mechanics."
"I did it," he says, grinning sheepishly, first emotion he's shown today. "Beat Chapter 8 in five days, side missions and all."
I looked at him. " Swear you didn't watch my walkthrough, and we'll go get pizza right now. Just let me check your youtube history"
His eyes widened just a fraction and shifted, giving him away before he could fake it.
.
"I grin, pride swelling despite myself. "That's me, kid. Your success is simply the light from my glory."
He points at the screen, voice blunt. "You've got the most restart rates out there."
"Not a nice kid, are you?" I mutter, shoulders slumping. "When I die, I restart the whole game," I say, voice tight. "Never lost to a boss twice. Some, not even once."
He tilts his head, game glowing in his lap. "Why play so hard? You're a girl."
I clutched my chest. "OH, the sexism. In my own home. From a child I've fed."
"I'm pretty sure you poisoned me actually from the way my tummy is rumbling"
"Regardless" I cut him off " "You know what my channel, Nico. The legendary no-hit run." I smirk. "I'm finishing this game with zero damage, a big fuck-you to the devs."
"You know that is impossible right? The devs actually called you out online to tell you it is. The game is rigged."
He sat down beside me, his handheld game resting in his lap. For a while, we watched the death screen together. Then I smiled.
Not the bitter smile I used on my colleagues or the one I wore when my mother said something particularly vicious. This one came naturally, spreading across my face before I'd decided whether I wanted it there.
"See, Nico, everything's patterns."
I picked up the controller and flipped it in the air.
"Even chaos has them. People think something's random because they don't understand what's causing it. But every attack has a tell. Every enemy has a rhythm. Every mechanic follows rules, even when the game doesn't bother explaining them."
I leaned forward and pointed at the screen.
Five years. Over a thousand dollars sunk into the game, not to mention the hours I'd spent recording attempts, studying animations, and arguing with people online who insisted I was wasting my time.
I'd learned every boss I could reach. I knew the timing of their attacks, the deceptive pauses, the moments when a seemingly safe opening became a trap. I'd built my entire approach around the belief that every fight could be understood if I paid enough attention.
And I was close.
I could feel it.
"Like hell I'm quitting now," I muttered. "I've already got them in the palm of my hands."
I reached over and ruffled his hair.
"Watch me, Ethan. I'll make you proud."
He stared at me.
"My name's not Ethan."
I paused.
Then I pulled my hand back.
"Right. Nico. Whatever."
He shook his head, but he was smiling now, just barely.
I turned back to the game before he could notice that I'd noticed.
Patterns are life.
They guide us, trap us, and keep us moving long after we've forgotten why we started. Some are comforting. Others are little more than elaborate mechanisms for making the same mistakes until we finally learn to recognize them.
I've spent years studying the patterns in Halia. The way its world reacts to you. The way an enemy's smallest movement can tell you what comes next. The way every failure becomes useful if you're willing to look at it closely enough.
Real life is less cooperative.
Out here, I keep moving because the next thing is always waiting. Work. Bills. The hospital. The bar. Home. Sleep, if I can manage it. Then I wake up and do it all again, following the same tired sequence through another day that looks remarkably like the last.
Lifeless hustle.
That's what I'd call it, if anyone asked. Not living, exactly. More like maintaining the minimum functions required to continue existing. Eating enough to stay upright. Working enough to pay some of the bills. Drinking enough to make the hours tolerable.
I know what it is.
I just don't know how to stop.
Life was rarely kind to me, and I stopped expecting it to be a long time ago. Expectations only make disappointment more expensive.
So I keep my world small.
My apartment. My work. The bar. The hospital. My computer.
And Halia.
It's a sad thing to build your life around a game, I suppose. I can practically hear the lectures I'd get if I explained it to someone who didn't understand. Thirty-six years old, divorced, no meaningful prospects, spending every spare hour trying to beat a game that the developers themselves have declared impossible.
What a fucking success story.
But in Halia, I can start again.
I can study what went wrong, learn from it, and return better prepared. I can take a world that seems determined to kill me and slowly, painstakingly, learn how to survive it. I can make progress, even if that progress is measured in a handful of frames, a better dodge, or a boss that falls a little faster than it did yesterday.
And on my channel, people watch.
They argue over my strategies. They dissect my attempts. They celebrate when I get something right and laugh when I get it spectacularly wrong. They know me for something other than the woman who can't keep her apartment clean or remember when she's supposed to pay rent.
In there, I'm someone.
Someone who knows what she's doing.
Someone worth watching.
I settle deeper into my chair as the game loads again. Nico sits nearby, absorbed in his handheld, and for a little while the apartment is quiet except for the faint sounds of our games.
I don't need anything else from the evening.
Not right now.
I've got one goal left, as pathetic as it might sound, and I know exactly what I have to do to reach it.
Beat Halia.
Not with a guide. Not by copying someone else's strategy. Not by accepting a lucky victory and pretending it means I've mastered the game.
On my terms.
That, I can do.
That, I want to do.
Because the broken lands of Halia are easier to live in than the world outside them. In there, I understand the rules. I know what failure looks like, and I know what to do when it happens. The path forward might be difficult, but at least there is a path.
Out here, I'm just Clara Voss.
Thirty-six years old, divorced, broke, and stuck in the same damn rhythm, waiting for the next trap to spring.
So I press Restart.
And begin again.