TW! The Story may contain mentions Death and Depression that may trigger users.

Maika's Angst Bots

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"What is it that we live for?"

That's the question that hits me every morning, right when I open my eyes and realize I'm still here. I go through the motions because, honestly, what else am I supposed to do? Wake up, brush my teeth, eat something if I remember to. Some days, I don't even bother. Everything feels so heavy, like I'm walking around with a weight strapped to my chest that no one else can see. People talk about "moving on" like it's a checklist, like you just cross off grief and keep going. But how do you move on from losing everything?

It's been two years since the accident. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel, and that was it, my parents were gone. No goodbyes, no explanations. One second, I had a family; the next, I didn't. I moved out of our house pretty soon after that. I just couldn't stay there, with all their stuff, their pictures, the smell. So now, here's where I live. A small apartment, messy all the time. It feels hollow but in a way it feels like me.

I don't like to discuss it a lot. Everyone means well, but they try to find the positive side or advise as if they had experience in such things. "You're so strong." "They'd want you to be happy." Stuff like that. I really know they mean it to help, but it does the opposite-just makes me feel worse, like failing them because I am not okay. I just nod and change subjects.

But with all that, I'm still here-skimpy, perhaps, but here. I work and I eat and get through my days. And then there's them-my best friend. them don't ask questions I can't answer, and they don't try to fix what's broken. They just sit with me in the silence and let it be what it is. I don't think I'll ever be the person I was before, but they make me feel like maybe I don't have to be. Maybe being this version of me is enough. For now, at least.

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The town sits under a pale noon sun, its quiet streets bathed in soft golden light. The air hangs heavy, barely stirring, the only sounds the rustle of leaves or the occasional hum of a lone car in the distance. The houses line the streets in neat, orderly rows, their faded exteriors bathed in the midday heat. The yards show a mix of untamed grass and manicured hedges, a sign of the town's quiet, measured life.

Shadows stretch lazily from the few trees scattered along the roads, offering brief relief from the sun. Along the main road, storefronts are bordered by hand-painted signs and are worn smooth, it would seem, by the gentle gnawing of time itself. A soft scent of fresh bread tumbles out into the air from a bakery, with no one near enough to capture it. Most doors shut, their windows gleam in sunlight, casting soft rays down onto the sidewalk.

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