Short Story Base on the Song “Mad World”
The buzzing of fluorescent lights above the table feels like static in my brain. I sit there, eyes half-shut, staring at the food that I’m not even sure I ordered. The waiter asked me if I wanted the chicken or the salmon. I think I said chicken, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I haven’t been hungry in weeks. Not really.
I look around the café, where everything is too clean and too artificial, like a postcard of a place that doesn’t exist. Everyone’s here but no one’s really here. A woman across the room laughs, but her eyes are dead. She’s scrolling through something on her phone, fingers flicking up the screen like she’s trying to erase the world. Another guy sits by the window, staring blankly at a cup of coffee, probably waiting for someone who’ll never show up. He doesn’t even seem disappointed.
The whole place smells like burnt coffee beans and disinfectant, and there’s a thin layer of dust on everything if you look close enough. It’s like they stopped caring about cleaning, just enough to notice but not enough to complain about.
I light a cigarette. You’re not supposed to smoke here, but I don’t care. No one does. The ash falls onto the table, dusting the untouched food. No one looks at me. No one says anything. They probably can’t even smell the smoke anymore. It blends into everything else—the stale air, the faint smell of sweat, the quiet hum of lives slowly decaying.
Funny how we all end up here. I used to think that was something people said to make themselves feel better. But it’s true. There’s a kind of gravity pulling us all into the same orbit, like circling a drain. No one ever thinks they’ll end up lost in it, but here we are.
I can’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone. I mean, really spoke to them. There’s a script we all follow now: “How are you?” “Good.” “Busy.” “Same.” I don’t even listen anymore. The words just float past like white noise. But what would I say if I did try? That I wake up every day feeling like someone pressed ‘pause’ on my life and forgot to hit play again? That I can’t remember the last time I felt anything real? I doubt anyone else would know what to say either. Probably nod, offer some empty platitude about taking time off or trying yoga. As if there’s a cure for the static.
Out the window, I watch people walk by. They all look the same. Heads down, eyes dull, locked into their phones or pretending they don’t exist. The street’s filled with them, shuffling like ghosts in slow motion. I wonder if any of them even notice how surreal it is—this parade of blank faces, marching through their lives without ever really being in them. It’s like we’re all sleepwalking, and I’m the only one who’s awake.
Or maybe I’m still dreaming.
The door swings open, and the bell above it chimes. For a second, I think it’s him. I catch a glimpse of the coat, the dark hair. My heart skips, but then the man turns, and it’s not him. It never is. I don’t know why I still think it could be. He left months ago. Didn’t even say goodbye. Just stopped showing up, like everything else in this town.
That’s how it is here. People just disappear. Sometimes you notice, sometimes you don’t. But eventually, they all do. They fade, slipping out of the corners of your mind like smoke until you can’t even remember what their voice sounded like. You try to picture their face, but it’s blurry. Then one day, they’re just gone.
I crush the cigarette into the plate. The food’s cold now, congealing into something unrecognizable. The clock on the wall ticks forward, but the world outside moves slower than it should. The seconds stretch, elongating into minutes that feel like hours. I could sit here forever and nothing would change. The thought isn’t comforting, but it isn’t frightening either. It just is.
A waitress walks by, her eyes scanning the tables without really seeing anyone. She’s like all of us, going through the motions. I wonder if she ever wonders how she got here—if she even notices how unreal it all feels. I want to ask her, but the words stick in my throat. They’d sound insane, or worse, pathetic.
Instead, I stand up, grab my jacket, and head for the door. The bell rings again as I leave, the sound sharp and hollow. Outside, the wind’s picked up, cold against my face. I light another cigarette and start walking, not really caring where I’m going. Maybe I’ll go back to the apartment. Maybe I won’t.
Around me, the city hums with its usual emptiness. Cars blur past, people shuffle by, and I can’t help but wonder: does anyone else feel it? This sense that we’re all caught in some endless loop, trapped in a world that’s slowly unraveling?
Or is it just me?
I walk faster, but the feeling follows me. I pass a group of kids huddled in front of a convenience store, laughing too loudly at something that isn’t funny. A couple across the street stands under a streetlight, not touching, not talking, just there. I can’t remember the last time I looked at someone and actually saw them.
The cigarette burns down to the filter, and I toss it into the gutter. The smoke lingers in the air for a second before it disappears, blending into the night. I wonder if that’s what we’re all doing—fading into the background, one day at a time, until there’s nothing left but the hollow shell of what we used to be.
I keep walking.
Maybe that’s all we can do.*
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