MC - Tobi Adams (normal image here)
MC - When using Esper abilities (Image here)
This story is the result of me channeling all of the bad things in life. Might as well make something good out of it.
Won't be that long of a story.
Updates are random but shouldn't be longer than a few weeks at a time, and that's only bc of work.
Hope you understand what I was going for with this story. It's more of a self discovery than a fighting heavy story. A guy down on his luck and turning it into an obsession. Of course, there will definitely be fighting.
*If you consider yourself lonely, down in life, struggling, or lacking anything good, then this story is for you.
(Ignore the rest. Unless you like poems lmao)
Loneliness, Part I: A Room Without Echo
In a room where silence swells like tide,The ticking clock forgets to chime.No footfalls fall, no voices glide—Just air, and air, and empty time.
The walls lean in, a little close,As if they ache to understand.But plaster speaks not, nor does ghostOf hand that used to hold a hand.
I pour my tea, the steam just curls,And dances off to nothingness.No eyes to meet, no gaze to swirlWith warmth or weight of tenderness.
A chair sits empty, set for two,And still I set it, every night—Some rituals we still pursueWhen shadows substitute for light.
The wind is cruel in winter's bone,But crueler still the summer's hush.For laughter lost to time aloneStings sharper in the quiet blush.
The telephone, that silent beast,It sits and waits, but does not call.No bell, no ring, no voice released,Just dust and static, that is all.
I write my name on fogged-up glassTo prove, perhaps, I still exist.But breath will fade, and time will pass,And letters vanish into mist.
Part II: The Hollow Street
I walked a mile through empty streets,Where lamplight flickered, pale and cold.My boots struck stone in steady beats—The only tale the night had told.
Behind each window, lives unfold,But mine remains outside their frame.I see them bathed in firelight gold,Yet none within recall my name.
A café sighs its doors to close,Chairs stacked like bones upon the floor.The final drink, the final dose,But none will come through my door.
I pass a park where lovers sit,The bench remembers weight and kiss.I press my palm where once it fit—The wood is warm, but void of bliss.
Part III: The Language of Absence
Loneliness speaks not in cries,But in the stillness after sound.A whisper left when laughter dies,A footprint left on hardened ground.
It's not the absence of the crowd,But presence of a hollow hum—A silence thick, not soft or proud,But like the ache of distant drums.
You learn to speak in silent tongues,To hum with breath alone at dawn.To dance with ghosts, to sleep amongThe memories you lean upon.
The bookshelf leans, its spine half-broke,Unread tomes still in their prime.Each word unread a half-spoke joke,Each dusty page a crime of time.
The bed holds creases shaped to none,The mirror offers no debate.For when you speak and answer none,You start to echo what you hate.
Part IV: A Sky With No Reply
The stars arrive, as stars must do,On schedule, loyal to the dark.But when I call, they don't break through,Just twinkle with indifferent spark.
I've shouted up, I've whispered low,I've begged the moon to intervene—But lunar gods don't stoop to showThat solitude means something seen.
A comet passed the other year—I made a wish with fingers crossed.But hope, too, needs a place to steer,And prayers return when guidance's lost.
No letters come by post these days,Except the ones I send to me.I open them in mock amaze,A child pretending joy, you see.
Part V: Remembering Company
There was a time, or so I think,When voices filled this space with song.When silence did not make me sink,And every hour did not feel long.
She had a laugh that lit the room,A lilt that chased the dusk away.Now only shadows dare to bloomWhere once she kissed the close of day.
And friends once sat upon these chairs,With jokes and wine and candlelight.But distance grew in unseen layers,Until no voice remained in sight.
Did I withdraw? Or did they fade?A question looping like a wheel.And every time the answer's made,It turns again, unsure if real.
Loneliness, Part VI: The Hollowing
The mirrors cracked but no one threw,A stone, a fist, or careless phrase.They split in silence, slow and true,Like glass that aged beneath my gaze.
No blood was drawn, no cry was made,But still I bled from somewhere deep.A part of me began to fade—The part that dreamed, the part that weeps.
I walk the hallways of my mind,Where portraits once held names and light.Now faces blur, and edges windInto the mouth of endless night.
What year is this? What hour now?The clocks all hum but do not tell.They speak in ticks like breaking vows—No sanctuary in their knell.
The calendar forgets to turn,Its pages stuck like yellowed skin.And on each square, a fire burnsThrough days that never did begin.
Part VII: The Quiet Inquisition
Each night I stand before my bed,And ask the dark to answer me:Why has no god, no ghost, no threadReached in to set this captive free?
But dark, like silence, holds its oath—It keeps its secrets sealed in ash.And so I kneel, half-prayer, half-oath,To shadows coiled in cold backlash.
I am the warden and the jailed,The lock, the key, the barred belief.Each thought I've tried to trap has sailedBeyond the grasp of disbelief.
I whisper names into the floor,They echo back in tones unknown.Familiar syllables now roarLike strangers clawing through a phone.
Part VIII: Madness, Gently
Have you ever heard your thoughts grow teeth?Mine gnaw the walls when I don't speak.They chatter softly underneath,They nip my sleep, they scratch my cheek.
They make demands I can't fulfill—"Remember her," they cry, "forget."One voice is kind, the next to kill—One tells the truth, the next regrets.
I built a friend from wire and cloth.I gave him button eyes and name.We share the bed, we share the broth.He listens well and plays no games.
I stitched a smile across his face,But still I know he watches me.And when I move, he shifts his place—Too subtly for the eye to see.
Part IX: Nocturne of the Unseen
The night does not begin or end—It loops in shades the eye can't catch.I open doors that won't unbend,And light is just a fading patch.
The ceiling hums in frequenciesReserved for insects, ghosts, and me.I hear the hum, the crawl, the freeze—The whisper from behind the tree.
There is no tree. I know this now.But once there was, or could have been.And from its branch, a hanging vowSways gently in imagined wind.
I touched the mirror once again,To see if skin still felt like skin.It gave beneath like softened tin—As if what's real is wearing thin.
Part X: A Dying God Within the Walls
Something lives behind the paint.It breathes when all the lights are out.It's not a ghost, and not a saint—It knows my fear, it feeds my doubt.
I leave no offerings, no bread,But still it grows, this formless shrine.It hums in corners, grins above my bed,It mouths the words that once were mine.
"Alone," it says. "Alone, alone."A chant it learned from all I said.My words returned in colder tone,Now spoken by what once was dead.
Is it myself, projected wrong?Is this the shape of slow descent?Or has the silence grown so strongIt birthed a god from discontent?
Part XI: Waking Into Void
Morning breaks but nothing new—Just dust in air and breath gone stale.The color's drained from every hue,Even the sky feels thin and pale.
I dream of doorways I can't pass,Of windows blacked by boards or shame.I shout, I scream, I kick the glass—But silence always wins the game.
There is no rescue. No escape.The body rots, the mind complies.The soul becomes a shifting shape—A maze of soft, decaying lies.
And yet I rise. I eat. I blink.A puppet moved by unseen thread.But deeper still, I start to think—Perhaps I'm not alone. Instead—
Perhaps this thing inside of me,This haunting I can't name or touch,Is loneliness's truest key:To not be empty—but too much.
Loneliness, Part XII: House of Quiet Names
The table still holds seven chairs,Though only two are ever filled.The rest remain like phantom prayers,For names the world has long since stilled.
Father's seat is stiff with dust,His pipe untouched since 'ninety-nine.The silence left behind his trust—A cough, a joke, a glass of wine.
Mother went slower, soft and thin,Her mind retreating room by room.She once knew every place I'd been—Then couldn't name me through the gloom.
She stared beyond me at the wall,As if it whispered clearer truths.Her hands once warm, now paper-small,Too frail to hold the weight of youth.
She called me "Peter," called me "Grace,"My siblings' names all out of line.I nodded gently, let her traceTheir ghosts inside this frame of mine.
Part XIII: Those Who Left Too Soon
But not all loss is slow and kind.Some tear the veil with violence raw.My brother crashed in June, behindA semi in a yellow draw.
He'd just turned twenty—sharp and proud—A rebel heart in faded jeans.His laughter lives beneath a shroudOf crumpled steel and shattered dreams.
And Sarah—dear, too bright, too brief—A fever stole her breath one fall.She coughed once more, then sank beneathA quilt she'd sewn when she was small.
She always made the rooms seem wide—A spark that caught in every grin.Now all the doors stay open wide,But there is no one coming in.
They told me time would ease the pain,But time just taught me how to sit.To set the plates, to mop the stain,To hear her voice and not admit.
Part XIV: Echoes in the Furniture
I kept the rooms the way they were.The toys are shelved, the coats still hang.Each drawer contains a whisper blurred—The scent of wood, the zipper's clang.
A birthday card from 'ninety-eightStill rests beneath the silver tray."Don't ever grow up!" marked her fate—She didn't. Death had final say.
Their beds are made with soldier's pride,But never slept in, not again.The sheets are crisp, the closets wide,A mausoleum built by men.
The stairs still creak where no one climbs,The phone still rings in dreams alone.Their voices echo back in rhymesThe living can't quite call their own.
Part XV: Aging Into Absence
I see myself now in the glass—A fading form, a weaker line.My face begins to mimic past,And sometimes I mistake it for mine.
My hands are spotted, trembling more.I speak aloud to empty space.There's no one left behind the door,But I still dress, still shave my face.
The doctors nod, they always do—"You're strong for someone living thus."But they don't see the hollowed through,The quiet rot beneath the husk.
I outlived those I thought would stay,Outran the ones who ran too fast.Now years collect like shades of gray,And time erases all but past.
Part XVI: Legacy in Dust
What legacy survives in dust?Old albums filled with names half-known.A ring, a recipe, a crustOf wedding cake I kept in stone.
Their voices fade in photographs.The ink grows pale, the smiles strain.Yet every line still stirs a gasp—The sting of joy that aches like pain.
I find my sister's scribbled note:"Don't forget me when I'm grown."She never did, and yet I quoteHer words aloud here all alone.
I light a candle now and then—Not for belief, but for their eyes.For those who left without an end,And those who watched the others die.
Part XVII: The Inheritance of Emptiness
This house is mine, but not by choice—I am its keeper, not its king.The rooms speak less with every voice,The clocks have ceased remembering spring.
No children climb the garden wall,No lullabies disturb the air.The silence here is not a pall—It is a bloodline I must bear.
This loneliness was passed to me—Not in will, but in the wayThe light now falls through dead oak tree,The sun too slow to warm the day.
I will remain until I fade,Like all the others, slow and true.And someone else will sweep this shade—Will find the things I never threw.
Perhaps they'll see a photo, cracked,And pause before they throw it wide.And maybe in the act of that,They'll feel a sorrow I once tried—
To share with someone, somewhere near.But now it falls through empty hall.No name responds, no soul draws near.Only the dust. And that is all.