Xu Mochen was born under an empty sky.
Not a sky full of stars, or sunlight, or storms. Just pale gray. Still and quiet, like it had nothing left to offer. Even as a child, he would lie down and stare up for hours, never hoping for something to change just watching it stay the same.
His parents weren't cruel. They gave him what he needed. They told him he was doing well. They spoke kindly, when they remembered to speak. But it was always distant. Routine. As if they were going through the motions of raising a child they had never truly wanted.
"You're such an easy child," they used to say.
And he was. He didn't complain. He didn't ask for more. He did what was expected, nothing less, nothing more.
But he didn't feel.
Even when he was surrounded by other kids, Xu Mochen felt like he was standing behind glass watching them laugh, cry, get angry, fall in love. He learned to smile when they smiled. He laughed when they laughed. But it was just copying.
Inside, he felt… nothing.
He didn't hate the world. He wasn't angry at life. He simply didn't believe in it.
While others chased dreams, Xu Mochen sat still. While they reached for purpose, he wondered why they bothered. He never wanted to be part of their games. He just wanted to understand why they played.
He spent hours reading manga, watching anime, scrolling through manhwa—stories where heroes screamed about justice, cried for friends, fought for dreams. Worlds bursting with life and meaning.
Not because he believed in them.
But because he liked watching people pretend.
Pretend that friendship changed everything.Pretend that love healed.Pretend that dreams were worth dying for.
He never felt joy when a character won. He didn't cry when one died. He just watched, like someone listening to a beautiful lie told by someone desperate to believe it themselves.
"They lie so beautifully," he said once while watching a hero cry for a friend.
Even that had started to fade. As he got older, the stories lost their shine. The emotions felt forced. The words felt empty. Just like everything else.
He never really made friends. The ones who came, left. The ones who stayed, never got close. And he didn't stop them. He didn't care to. He didn't understand what they wanted from him, or what he was supposed to want from them.
He wasn't broken. He wasn't traumatized.
He was just… done.
He would lie on the roof and stare at the sky. The same sky he had known since he was a child. Still gray. Still silent. Still honest.
"It's the only thing that doesn't lie," he whispered one evening. "It never promises anything."
The sky never answered.
And he never expected it to.
When he died, it was quiet. No pain. No final thoughts. No struggle.
Just a body giving up. A breath slipping away. A life ending as softly as it had been lived.
There was no drama. No one beside him. No one watching.
And that, somehow, felt right.
He had lived like a shadow, and now he was gone like one.
No regrets.
No sorrow.
No pretending.
Just peace.