Later

(This story contains images of death, and thoughts of after life)

For the first time in his life—or maybe it should be said, since he died—he recognized the hunger. The sensation, a jarring wake-up call like bone on ice. Piercing and unforgettable. It cut through like an icy blade.

Hunger never announced itself while he was alive. If it arrived, it was quiet, and he treated it as he did everything else: with politeness. He mistook restraint for virtue, fear for thoughtfulness. He told himself he was careful, patient—there would be time for what he wanted.

When he felt braver.

When he felt more deserving.

When he felt less fearful.

He never argued, always the quiet one, lingering at the edge of rooms, listening for the right moment to speak and missing it. He rehearsed conversations in his head until they were a tangle of words. He nodded when he wanted to disagree, and smiled when he tried to leave. Wanting felt rude, like taking someone else’s space. "Why should I interrupt? What if they think I'm foolish?" whispered the constant refrain of self-doubt that held him back.

He told himself many things.

He told himself he wasn’t enough.

He was always the one with dreams.

The one with hopes and passion.

He was also the one who didn't believe. He was told too often that he lived in his head, that he wasn't clever enough, that he wasn't strong enough. That he couldn't do it. His confidence waned. Fear resided. Yet, sometimes he was caught off guard by the smell of charcoal, a scent that reminded him of creation—possibilities beyond his doubts—a fleeting spark of something still alive within.

He drew endlessly, the texture of paper, the scent of charcoal, the dust on his fingers fueling his need to create. He shaped his own style, at last discovering his voice. When he learned of a contest, he longed to enter; the old, doubting voices returned.

He didn’t.

He wanted to find love.

He wanted to find joy.

He wanted to find his voice.

After a while, he stopped dreaming.

The pond froze early that year. People claimed the ice could hold boots, dogs, even a man who doubted his own weight. He remembered standing at the rim, the ice dull and white, stretched over the darkness below. His first step drew a thin, ringing note, echoing like music trapped behind glass.

That plaintive sound lingered in his memory.

He heard it and committed to moving forward. He reassured himself that caution was enough, that caution meant wisdom. But the words faded as he thought them, as they always had. Stopping would have meant making a decision. He didn't believe in his choices. That had been taken away.

'Turn back,' a voice inside whispered, insistent, as though afraid of its own suggestion.

'Stay here. Be brave.' These thoughts circled relentlessly, a tug-of-war within his mind, each temptation wrestling for control. Turning back meant admitting that he wanted to stay alive more than he wanted to appear unafraid.

He had never been good at choosing himself.

He gazed into the black, glassy surface. His reflection peered up, his shoes’ tips merging into a makeshift neck. He glimpsed something unfamiliar—not fear, not thoughtfulness, not hesitation. A sudden wind swept a veil of snow across his reflection, erasing features as he recalled the man across the room.

Their eyes met.

His heart froze. His breath hammered against his ribs, urging him to act.

To go forward. To be brave.

To have what he deserved.

He watched the handsome stranger disappear into the crowd.

The ice broke without drama.

No great crack.

No warning shout.

A sudden heartbeat.

A gasp for air.

Then there was a plunge. Cold and overpowering. The water hit like a thousand needles. The shock came next, numbing out thought and breath, as if the world spun around him for just an instant. Silence followed, a profound and unsettling quiet, as water swallowed him whole and emotions rippled in its wake.

Dark.

Soundless.

Absolute.

He struggled for a moment. His hands slid helplessly along the slick underside of the ice, searching for the gap he had fallen through. His fingertips missed the hole by an inch. The distance was a narrow measure of escape, slipping away. His feet pressed against the pond’s floor, straining to lift him. He didn't rise. The water was heavier than he was.

The panic let go.

Death, he discovered, was not pain for very long.

What followed was something quieter, worse.

He didn't breathe, yet was aware. He didn’t feel his body, but memory clung with terrible precision. His name no longer mattered. Time loosened. Moments drifted past without order or mercy. He saw himself standing in doorways, holding coats, letting chances pass. He saw all the small refusals that added to a careful life.

And lived all the same.

It was there, in that weightless awareness, that the hunger found him.

It was not for food. It was not even for warmth. Even though he remembered how good it felt to come in from the cold.

It was for sensation.

For risk.

For the fierce, exhilarating pleasure of wanting and daring to reach. But now, that hunger swelled, demanding attention and action. His lungs craved breath, his limbs ached for pain, and his chest pounded with fear—but his heart didn't. All served as proof of his existence in a world that constantly shifted and slipped away.

He thought hunger was an inconvenience. He thought desire was something to be managed.

Now it filled him.

He watched the living world from afar, feeling its pulse just out of reach. He realized what life had always offered, what it demanded in return. He saw what he had ignored, the beliefs he clung to. The lies he told himself, the risks he avoided, the challenges he feared and could not meet. Not safety. Not certainty.

Attention.

Appetite.

Courage.

Too late, he thought, and the thought echoed without sound. If there was a way back, he didn’t know it. If there was mercy, it did not announce itself. There was only the wanting, vast and unanswerable, an empty horizon of ice.

For the first time, he understood what it meant to be alive.

Now his hunger for life could never be satisfied.