MAFIA

Gland MAYBE I DON’T EXIST in the future I’m so worried about. The thought drifted into my mind, unbidden, as I stared at my laptop screen, working on our thesis paper. It was 2:37 a.m., and despite the late hour, my fingers moved almost mechanically over the keyboard. I am stuck wrestling with the "Theoretical Framework" section—something that wasn’t even supposed to be my responsibility. Yet here I am. Why? Because my "ever-diligent" group mate had the audacity to send me a poorly-written draft from AI, a shortcut that made my workload heavier instead of lighter. I sighed deeply and rubbed my temples, trying to fend off the growing frustration knotting in my chest. I stared at the screen for a long moment, the cursor blinking in quiet defiance of my exhaustion. Enough is enough. Without thinking, I opened our group chat. Me: “Kevin, can we talk about the draft that you’ve sent? It’s practically hopeless.” I hesitated before pressing send, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But the blue checkmarks popped up almost instantly, and his reply came even faster. Kevin: “Was it that bad? Can’t you just fix it? You’re better at that stuff anyway.” I nearly laughed out loud—not because it was funny, but because it was so absurd. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, every nerve in my body screaming at me to type something sharp. Something harsh. But instead, I just tossed my phone in bed. At 2:37 in the morning, I didn’t have the energy to fight. Not with them. Not with myself. I got up from my chair and stretched, my arms reaching high above my head and my hips shifting side to side. My lower back let out a dull ache in protest, the kind I’d been feeling more often lately. Bending down or getting up from lying down had started to feel like a chore, and I’d begun to dread the stiffness that came with it. I shuffled to the kitchen and grabbed another coffee—my fourth of the day, by the way. I chuckled to myself, imagining my guardian angel sighing in exasperation. “Hang in there,” I muttered under my breath, smiling faintly as I returned to my room. Back in my room, I leaned into my chair, clutching the mug like it was a lifeline. The scent hit me first, sharp and bitter, but comforting in its own way. I closed my eyes and took a slow, deliberate sip, exhaling as if this was some sacred ritual. For a moment, I let myself believe it was the most flavorful thing I ever have. The room was eerily quiet, save for the gentle hum of the air conditioner. Outside, the streetlights cast faint, distorted shadows across my walls. The world seemed still, but my thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. I exhaled slowly, placing the cup on the table as I turned back to my laptop. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I reopened the draft Kevin had sent. It was still as messy and incoherent as before, but I pushed through, fixing one line after another. The faster I finished this, the faster I could finally sleep. But as I worked, a nagging question surfaced again, creeping through the cracks of my concentration. What’s the point of all this? This thesis. The endless late nights. The future I’m so worried about. Life itself. I stopped typing, a different thought crept into my head now—something I hadn’t dared to entertain before. Is this it? Is this what my life is going to look like? Deadlines. Obligations. A predictable march toward a future I’m not even sure I wanted. I want something more. Something thrilling. Something that feels meaningful, making my pulse race with excitement, not dread. I’m not sure what that something is, but it definitely isn’t this thesis. My spiraling thoughts were cut off by the sudden, jarring sound of the doorbell. My chest tightened. It was past midnight. Who could be at the door at this hour? A wave of unease washed over me, followed quickly by curiosity. Cautiously, I walked toward the door. My bare feet made no sound against the cold floor as I approached. Every step felt heavier, the surrounding silence more oppressive. I paused for a moment, staring at the door like it might answer my unspoken questions. Then, gathering a shaky breath, I peeked through the peephole. No one. The hallway outside was empty. Without thinking, I unlocked the door and cracked it open. Cool air seeped in as I glanced left, then right. The corridor is deserted. That’s when I noticed it—a small envelope lying on the ground, right in front of our door.