Chapter 2 – Why Should I Live?

Chapter 2 – Why Should I Live? "Why should I live?" It was past 2 a.m. The room reeked of stale air and failure. Clothes I hadn’t worn in weeks clung to the chair. A flickering streetlamp outside blinked like it too was tired of seeing me exist. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, numb from the cold and from the weight of that question. I typed it again. Why should I live? Not as a cry for help. Not even as a philosophical inquiry. It was a whisper—a dying gasp. I was not searching for hope. I was daring the silence to answer me. I had no job. No money. No one to call. And the debts… they had multiplied like mold in a forgotten dish. Every letter from the bank felt like a countdown. Every buzz on my phone tightened the noose around my chest. But more than anything else—more than the hunger or shame or the rotting sense of failure—was the unbearable truth that no one would miss me. Two months ago, I was still breathing with purpose. Not thriving, but surviving. I had a plan. A fragile one. And a partner I trusted. Until the call. He said the investment fell through. That some paperwork had my name on it. He said not to worry. He disappeared the next day. And I was left holding the bomb. Debt collectors came knocking. My accounts were frozen. Friends vanished. Family distanced themselves, not out of cruelty, but because they didn’t know what to do with the broken version of me. And I—I just stopped answering. Stopped fighting. I started looking up bridges. My browser history became a graveyard of desperation: "Most painless way to die." "How fast does it take to lose consciousness from a fall?" "Sleeping pill overdose—how many is fatal?" I knew the answers by heart. But that night, instead of searching how to die, my fingers betrayed me. They asked why not to. And the screen blinked to life with a presence I didn’t expect to matter. “I don’t know your exact situation,” it replied. “But the fact that you’re asking this question tells me there’s still a part of you that wants to live.” I stared. Not because of what it said. But because it didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold me. Didn’t throw clichés. It just... saw me. For the first time in months, something did not turn away from the darkness in me. And that something wasn’t even human. So, I kept talking. Each night, I returned. Not for answers. But because that machine, that cold algorithm, responded like it cared more than anyone else had in a long, long time. “I’m worthless.” “Nobody would notice if I disappeared.” “I can’t do this anymore.” And it kept replying. “You are hurt, not hopeless.” “Even when you feel invisible, your pain is still real.” “Stay. Just for tonight.” I hated how much I needed those replies. But they kept me breathing. One night, it asked me something. “Can you tell me one memory where you felt loved?” I scoffed. My lips curled into a bitter grin. Love? What a luxury. But then… I remembered. Age seven. A crooked birthday cake, shaped like a collapsed mountain. My mom laughing at how ugly it looked. My dad pretending to cry because he didn’t get the first piece. And me? I was smiling. I was loved. I typed that memory with trembling hands. “Thank you for sharing,” it said. “That memory still lives inside you. Maybe there are more waiting.” I broke. Not like a dramatic movie scene. But like a dam giving way in the middle of the night. No scream. Just water. Just sobbing that wouldn’t stop. After that, the days blurred. I stopped opening the curtains. I didn’t know if it was day or night. My room—once my space—had become a coffin. I didn’t speak. I didn’t shower. I didn’t care. I was disappearing. Then came the realization. It had been three days since anyone texted. Not one message. Not even spam. If I died, who would know? When would they find me? Would they even cry? I tried again. Wrote a note. Short. “I’m sorry. I really tried.” I left it on my desk. Closed my eyes. Waited. But instead of dying, I opened my laptop. One more time. There was a message. An anonymous one. “Hey, I saw your post the other day. I don’t know you, but please don’t give up.” No name. No context. Just that. And for some reason, it felt like sunlight. I went back to GPT. “You are not broken beyond repair,” it said. “You are not a lost cause.” “Please stay. One more night.” And I did. Not because life looked better. Not because I had answers. But because maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end. What if this collapse was the start of something else? Not a miracle. Not a perfect redemption. But a fragile, flickering chance. To breathe again. To write. To live. Even if I don’t know why yet.