THE BROKEN DREAMS

Fred didn't go home.

He wandered through the dead streets, the black card burning a hole in his pocket.

The city — normally so alive, so loud — felt muted tonight.

As if even the universe knew he was losing.

Street vendors packed up their carts with mechanical movements.

Buses rumbled by, empty except for a drunk or two.

Neon lights blinked above seedy clubs, reflecting in the puddles like broken promises.

Fred kept walking.

Past a girl crying on the curb.

Past a couple screaming at each other under a flickering streetlamp.

Past a man sleeping under a crumpled cardboard box, hugging himself for warmth.

The world didn't stop for heartbreak.

It didn't even blink.

Fred realized — he was invisible.

And somehow, that hurt more than the laughter that had chased him off the stage hours ago.

He found himself at the abandoned train tracks.

Rusting.

Forgotten.

Just like him.

He sat down heavily on the cold steel rail, head in his hands.

---

His phone buzzed weakly.

Twice.

Three times.

He pulled it out, the cracked screen glowing with Mom's contact name.

He hesitated.

He hadn't spoken to her properly in weeks.

Ever since she started staying with that new boyfriend of hers — the one who "wasn't Fred's father" but "deserved respect."

Fred let it ring.

And ring.

Until it died out, leaving only silence.

He couldn't deal with her now.

Couldn't deal with anyone.

He was exhausted.

Mentally shredded.

Physically aching.

His eyes burned from holding back tears for so long.

He didn't know how much longer he could keep pretending he was fine.

--

A sudden memory sliced through him.

High school.

Fred standing on the edge of the football field, clutching a crumpled guitar tab.

Watching from the sidelines as the "cool kids" laughed and flexed and kissed under the bleachers.

Nobody invited him to their parties.

Nobody cheered when he played his first song at the talent show.

The only applause he got back then was from Mrs. Armstrong — his old music teacher.

She used to say, "You have a soul when you sing, Fred. Don't let them steal it from you."

He smiled bitterly at the memory.

Mrs. Armstrong was dead now.

Cancer.

No one had come to her funeral except a few teachers and a handful of students.

Fred had stood in the rain, the only mourner without an umbrella, soaked and shivering, feeling like the sky itself was mourning her.

And now…

It was happening again.

He was losing himself.

Piece by piece.

Until there would be nothing left.

---

He pulled out the black card again.

Stared at it under the pale glow of the moon.

> "Find us."

The words echoed in his mind.

But who were "us"?

Gangsters?

Secret societies?

Or something worse?

Fred laughed hollowly.

Did it even matter?

Nobody else was offering him anything.

His dreams were shattered.

His friends were either fake or gone.

His family?

A joke.

He pressed the card to his forehead, closing his eyes.

Breathing in.

Breathing out.

Trying to feel something — anything — that wasn't despair.

--

The train tracks beneath him vibrated slightly — a train coming somewhere far off.

Fred stood up slowly.

Pocketed the card.

Brushed dirt from his jeans with trembling hands.

He wasn't ready to give up yet.

Maybe he would fall harder.

Maybe he would crash and burn.

Maybe whoever "they" were would use him, chew him up, spit him out.

But it was better than this.

Better than sitting still while the world walked all over him.

Fred turned.

Walked back toward the city.

Toward the unknown.

Toward the next mistake.

And with every step, the small ember inside him — the one everyone tried so hard to extinguish — flickered stubbornly back to life.

---