Unsuccessful person sits on the edge of his bed, gazing blankly at the ceiling. His belongings are scattered, hinting at hobbies he once tried but never pursued. The world outside seems distant, muffled by the silence that fills the room.
Unsuccessful person[/@ch_1] prepares breakfast.]
He moves slowly, his actions mechanical. The television hums in the background, showing vibrant people chasing dreams, but he barely notices. "Is this all there is?" he murmurs, his voice almost lost beneath the rain.
Unsuccessful person wanders through, invisible among his peers. Posters for clubs and competitions line the walls, but none catch his eye. "I wish I knew what to want," he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
An older man sits nearby, his eyes kind but searching. He notices Unsuccessful person’s withdrawn demeanor and offers a gentle smile. "Sometimes, not knowing is the start of something new," the man says, watching the boy carefully. "What do you enjoy, even a little?"
Unsuccessful person considers the man’s words, feeling a subtle shift within. He pauses, noticing the texture of leaves, the sound of his footsteps, the scent of earth. "Maybe I just haven't found it yet," he thinks, a spark of hope flickering in his chest.
Unsuccessful person sits at his desk, surrounded by scattered papers and pencils. He sketches absentmindedly, lines flowing, shapes emerging. For the first time, he feels curious, unsure but willing to explore. "Dreams don't always arrive quickly," he whispers, smiling to himself.
