The sky burned orange as the sun set behind the horizon—the daily surrender that somehow felt like a personal betrayal today. Thomas watched, counting the minutes until darkness would mercifully cover the city. Darkness, at least, wouldn't expect anything from him.

He'd worn the same shirt for three days now. A brown collar, dried sweat, and colored stains of meetings that had gone nowhere. Eighteen years of "yes, sir" and "right away" and "I have just the solution" had culminated in this—standing by the roadside, watching the sun set on the day he'd finally run out of second chances.

"We'll be in touch,"

they'd said this morning, with that particular smile that professionals reserve for the walking dead. The same smile he'd seen thirty one times before. That smile that didn't reach the eyes, that was accompanied by a handshake firm enough to remain professional, but not firm enough to suggest any genuine connection.

There was the quick nod (guaranteed ghosting), the head tilt (pity, no callback), and his personal favorite, The folder close (immediate disposal of documents upon his departure).

His phone hadn't rung in three weeks except for his mother asking if he'd "found anything yet," as though jobs were misplaced keys or socks disappeared in the dryer.

His email inbox might as well have been a mausoleum—a digital tomb where his applications went to die without so much as an automated reply to mark their passing.

How ironic.

The man who once drafted five-year plans now counted success in days without crying in public places.

Tuesday: victory—only teared up in a public bathroom stall.

Wednesday: defeat—broke down in a bus after he mistakenly thought someone had called his name.

The metrics for achievement had shifted considerably.

The quarter bottle of vodka on the floor next to his mattress—called to him like an old friend. The kind of friend who lied to your face but at least had the decency to help you forget the truth for a few hours. And so he treaded back 'home'.

"To absent opportunities,"

he toasted the empty room, raising the bottle in a salute to nobody. The neighbors below must have heard him talking to himself again. Add it to the list of reasons his neighbors gave him those concerned looks in the stairway. Perhaps they were taking bets on when he'd finally crack.

And wasn't that the funniest part? He'd already cracked months ago. The pieces of his former self were scattered like breadcrumbs along a path that led exactly nowhere. He'd done everything right—university with honors, unpaid internships ("It's about the experience!"), overtime without complaint, networking events where he'd smiled so hard his face ached for days.

He'd followed every piece of advice, climbed every rung of the supposed ladder, only to discover the ladder was propped against the wrong wall. Or perhaps there was no wall at all—just a ladder in an empty field, climbing toward nothing.

The people he'd wanted to make proud had moved on with their lives. Ex-girlfriends married with children whose names he'd never know. Former colleagues promoted to positions with titles that required multiple hyphens. Even his college roommate—the one who'd smoked weed daily and considered instant noodles a gourmet meal—had somehow stumbled backward into success.

Life's cosmic joke never failed to deliver its punchline. The universe had a talent for timing.

His counter contained three condiments, an ancient banana, and a bottle of milk that had likely achieved sentience by now. The cupboards offered stale peanuts and 3 eggs he'd been saving for a special occasion. What occasion could be more special than the day you finally admit defeat? Omelet day it was.

When had it happened? When had "temporary setback" transformed into "this is your life now"? Was it the third rejection? The tenth? Or was it last Christmas, when he'd told relatives he was "between opportunities" and watched their expressions shift from concern to something worse—acceptance of his failure as a permanent condition?

His walls were decorated with degrees and certificates—paper promises of a future that had never materialized. Sometimes he imagined them whispering to each other at night, laughing at their collective failure to deliver on their implied contract. We told him he'd be somebody. Wasn't that hilarious?

The vodka burned pleasantly, washing away the aftertaste of his last interview. The one where they'd asked him where he saw himself in five years, and he'd nearly laughed in their faces. Five years? He couldn't see past Friday. The future was a luxury good he could no longer afford.

The clock on the wall ticked with mechanical indifference. Time, at least, moved forward, even when lives did not.

And then something shifted.

Perhaps it was the particular quality of despair that comes when you've exhausted all reasonable options. But something inside him snapped like a rubber band stretched beyond its limit.

He turned the music up—some forgotten playlist from happier days—until the bass vibrated the metal cups in his cabinet. The echoes of songs played only in his mind as he conducted an orchestra only he could hear, his apartment as devoid of entertainment devices as it was of hope.And then, in the privacy of his failure, he began to dance.

It wasn't good dancing. It wasn't the dancing of someone with anything to lose. It was the dance of a man who had finally understood the cosmic joke and decided to laugh along. His limbs flailed with the desperate freedom of someone who has realized reputation is just another word for prison.

He sang off-key to songs he half-remembered. He jumped until the downstairs neighbors pounded on their ceiling. He screamed lyrics until his voice cracked and broke. He performed for an audience of ghosts—all the versions of himself that could have been, should have been, but never would be.

Jessica from across the hall peered through her peephole, no doubt adding this episode to her mental dossier. The young couple two doors down hurried past, averting their eyes from the spectacle. Someone called the building manager.

"The town has a new madman,"

he announced to his reflection in the window glass, bowing with theatrical flair. His reflection bowed back, equally pathetic, equally free.

Tomorrow would bring more rejections, more hollow promises, more "we'll be in touch" and "not quite what we're looking for."

The sun would rise on another day of diminishing returns. His bank account would continue its steady march toward zero. Nothing had changed.

Except, perhaps, everything had.

There's a certain freedom in hitting bottom

—a grotesque liberation in having nothing left to protect. When you've tried everything and failed, when the dreams have withered and the fight has gone out of you, when all that remains is the punchline without the joke—well, then you might as well dance.

So he danced in the wreckage of his ambitions, a one-man celebration of magnificent failure. The world had taken everything else, but it couldn't take this moment of absurd, desperate joy.

Outside, the city continued its relentless pulse. Somewhere, people succeeded. Somewhere, dreams came true. Somewhere, effort was rewarded and persistence paid off.

But not here. Not for him.

And wasn't that the most pitiful thing of all?

Or perhaps the most beautiful.