No One Else in the World: A Short Story
Part I
IT WAS A TYPICAL SATURDAY, a day that unfolded just like any other unencumbered day off from grammar school. Troye awoke at an ungodly hour, as if driven by some grand purpose yet to be fulfilled. It was evident that the lad had risen with the energy of a main character, as even the most mundane actions played out like cinematic scenes in his mind. The morning sunlight bathed his tanned face in its warm amber, rousing him from sleep. Glancing around, it dawned on him that the yellow silk curtains in his bedroom had been replaced by turquoise ones. Although he had always scorned those yellow drapes, he had never mustered the courage to tell his mother, for fear of hurting her feelings. Thus, assuming she had made the change, he chose to act naturally and not make a fuss about it. He also noticed that his room looked remarkably pristine—perhaps too clean, he reasoned, for the bedroom of a sixteen-year-old boy. This is my mum’s doing, he surmised. However, Troye soon felt as if he had had a revelation in his sleep, one that seemed to have vanished from his memory upon waking. The thought lingered in his mind, troubling him. As a sense of unease washed over him, he clutched his head with both hands, fingers entwined in his wavy hair. Deep down, he understood that what he had witnessed would somehow alter the trajectory of his life and worldview. Yet, as he pursued that elusive message from his subconscious, it slipped beyond his grasp—like a moth fluttering erratically in the dim candlelight, impossible to catch.
Troye pondered the irony: sometimes, the more you try to grasp something, the more it slips through your fingers like water. What’s left are empty spaces, unfilled voids, and a distressing sense of loss. Existential emptiness. Yet the worst part is to try to hold on to something you can no longer hold on to. The knowledge his soul longed for had vanished without a trace, like smoke dissipating in the air. Perhaps it had been a premonition, a mystery unveiled by the universe, or maybe a person he had met in his dreams and now felt nostalgia for. His mind felt fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle of which only a few loose corners remained. The dream made no sense. He tried to make an effort to salvage any scrap of it, even a minimal trace, that could point him towards that truth momentarily revealed. Nothing. It was no use. Troye’s frustration grew as he was unable to consciously access the content of this dream experience.
Troye was spellbound.
As if in a “Get Ready With Me” for a mental breakdown, Troye shed his pyjama boxers as if they were old skin and donned a fresh outfit: he slipped into a white t-shirt emblazoned with a Star Wars print, and paired it with an R2D2-themed slip. He also wore black canvas shorts, sky-blue socks, and Chuck Taylor sneakers, once white, now yellowed and worn. Lastly, he added a few accessories to complete his look. And voilà! He was ready to face the day. A fleeting glance at the mirror beside his bed made him halt, perplexed by his own image. Why did he feel so strange? For a brief second, he couldn’t recognise the person staring back at him. Was this feeling a premonition of something to come, or just the aftermath of a poor night’s sleep? His mind was a haze, his memories a wash of sand and sea. But Troye couldn’t afford the luxury of lingering there, entangled in his thoughts. No. A perfect weekend awaited him. With a deep sigh, he left his room, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
In a rush, Troye hopped his way down the stairs and into the hallway, looking for his mother. As he did, he was struck by the solemn stillness that pervaded the house. A mournful silence. His mum was nowhere to be found, nor was Shadow, his beloved dog. What could have happened? He surmised that she had taken Shadow out for a walk, leaving behind a sense of emptiness that mirrored his own existence. Was it just his imagination, or did quite sinister vibes permeate the air? Perhaps, that emptiness was a deep-seated longing for something—or someone—to shake up the mundane monotony of his life, an ache for a true friend who would accept and understand him. Zero. His list of friends was in the negative, and the chances of finding one were, alas, just as dismal.
After finding neither his mother nor his dog, nor anything to occupy his time, the lad wandered through the house until he reached the kitchen, a void gnawing at his insides. Perhaps he was just famished. He rummaged through the cupboards and grabbed a bowl, a spoon, and a cereal box. With a sigh, placed them on the white quartz worktop. He then withdrew a pint of skimmed milk from the fridge. Fry-up? Not today, Satan. He poured himself a bowl of cornflakes, but upon taking a sip of milk, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed in this bland and tasteless breakfast that was the worst nightmare of every health-conscious, aesthetic-obsessed Gen Z’er. The plain white dishes in the cupboard caught Troye’s attention as they lacked any decoration. He pondered what kind of family could possess such impersonal items in their home. Of course, the answer was quite obvious: a clichéd London family as mundane as the objects they owned. Troye was even more perplexed upon noticing that the milk pint was literally labelled SKIMMED MILK, while the cereal box was white with bold black letters reading CORN FLAKES. Boring. This was the epitome of basic, a far cry from the eye-catching, influencer-approved branding and packaging he had seen on his TikTok feed.
With a roll of his eyes, Troye carried his breakfast to the sofa in the living room, hoping to enjoy some telly. He grabbed the remote and switched on the television, but as he flipped through the channels in search of something worth watching, he saw nothing but a vexing message on the screen.
NO SIGNAL.
Troye attempted to stream something on Netflix, but it was futile. To his dismay, the internet was also unavailable, just like everyone else in his life. With nothing to watch, he tried a spoonful of cereal, and it tasted like gluey cardboard, bringing back memories from his childhood that had been blocked in his mind for a long time. He looked back on his days in nursery school and recalled his fondness for eating glue. Disappointed, Troye stared blankly at the TV screen. He felt a hollow ache in his chest that spoiled every moment of his day. What message was the universe trying to convey to him? Was he destined to spend his days alone, with no other companions than cereal and skimmed milk? Was this the pinnacle of his existence, or was there something beyond the black screen and buffering icon, waiting for him? Troye was dying of ennui, yearning for something new or exciting in this digital age of futile redundancy.
Troye gave up on finding something to watch and turned off the TV.
When he went back to the kitchen to check the milk’s expiry date, he saw a disturbing sight: a picture of him and his father on a camping trip stuck to the door. The disturbing part? He had never seen that photo before. Feeling a surge of panic, he wondered, what else had changed in the house? With his gaze fixed on the photo, he tried to find some clue that it was an AI-generated fake. It wasn’t. His eyes then roamed the room and took in the pictures hanging on the walls, finding himself amid a gallery of father-and-son moments—moments he had no recollection of living. His mother, who had raised him alone since he was nine, had disappeared from this narrative. It was as if he had skipped a whole season of his life’s TV series. Was this one of the missing pieces necessary to solve his mental puzzle? When did his life become so alien to him? The life he remembered seemed like a distant dream, and now this unfamiliar reality was asserting itself to be his true story.
Troye’s phone buzzed.
Calls always seemed to unsettle him—why ring when a text does the job? Thankfully, the caller, dubbed “Wanker” in his contacts, opted for messaging instead. The screen lit up with a new notification:
Hey, fancy hanging out? Want to come round my house? 👀
He couldn’t fathom why anyone would seek his company. Swamped by scepticism, he was torn between deciding whether the random contact was a friend or a complete stranger. Should he take the plunge and see what this wanker had in store, or would it be better to ignore the invitation and unravel the mysteries of this new reality on his own? Shivering, he weighed his options and chose to respond to the text.
Can’t. You come round to mine. I’m home alone. SOS! 💀💀💀
Immediately after, Troye’s phone buzzed again. A new text message appeared on the screen:
On my way. I’ll be there in a sec. 🏃
Troye paced the living room, a swarm of questions buzzing through his mind. What had happened to his mother and Shadow? How had he had been pulled into this twisted nightmare? What was the way out of this labyrinth? Consumed by impatience and unrest, he strode back and forth, striving to find some semblance of order amidst the chaos.
As the minutes ticked by without any answers, weariness weighed heavily upon Troye. With a resigned sigh, he collapsed onto the sofa, defeated both physically and mentally. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the embrace of a deep slumber.
Then, the doorbell rang.
Startled, Troye snapped out of his slumber, rubbing his eyes as he adjusted to the sudden daylight. Must be that bloke, he thought, still dazed by the fog of sleep. He staggered towards the front door, but not without mishaps. In his haste, he tripped over the edge of the coffee table, sending a book on a kamikaze dive straight onto his little toe. ‘Ow, my bloody toe!’ he cursed under his breath, hopping on one foot as he bolted his way to the door.
Troye grasped the doorknob with trembling hands, turning it carefully as he tried to shake off the remnants of his nap. He braced himself for whatever lay ahead, ready to add yet another mishap to his already long list of the day’s misfortunes. With a slight creak, he opened the door.
‘Mum. Shadow. It’s really you!’ Troye exclaimed in astonishment, convinced it had all been an elaborate prank. His mother greeted him with a warm smile, and Troye bent down, tenderly stroking Shadow’s head. The nightmare was over.
‘Missed us?’ Shadow barked as he covered Troye’s face with licks.
Fuck.
Did his dog just talk?
Startled, Troye snapped out of his slumber, rubbing his eyes as he adjusted to the sudden daylight. This time, he gave himself a firm slap—just a reality check. Ah, the ridiculous reality! The stinging impact of his hand against his face was heavy and tangible. Must be that bloke, he mused, heading towards the front door with a newfound sense of courage. Manoeuvring past the coffee table with a near miss, he lightly grazed it. The kamikaze book teetered on the edge of a dramatic plunge, but Troye caught it in time, tossing it back to the centre of the table like a discus thrower.
With a flourish, Troye grasped the doorknob and turned it, shaking off the remnants of his nap. He braced himself for whatever lay ahead—wait, that mindset hadn’t served him well last time.
Upon opening the door, Troye found himself face-to-face with a familiar-looking young lad he couldn’t remember ever seeing before. ‘Oi, mate!’ the lad exclaimed with a cheerful London accent, standing there with a bright demeanour. He was a tall bloke, with rosy cheeks and freckles scattered across his face; his brown hair styled in a fashionable cut. Clad in a white sweatshirt, well-worn oversized blue trousers, and a pair of white Vans Old Skool sneakers, he radiated skater vibes with a dash of e-boy flair. He was the epitome of aesthetics. The lad’s appearance made Troye wonder whether he was the wanker—his wanker. With only a handful of acquaintances at grammar school, whom he rarely saw outside of class, Troye was far from being considered popular. Yet here he was, the most charming bloke Troye had ever seen, waiting on his response with a nonchalant air.
‘Oi?’ Troye stuttered, fumbling over his words as a wave of embarrassment washed over him. ‘Are you, you know—are you my wanker?’ he asked, feeling like a right plonker.
‘Am I your wanker? Sometimes you’re a proper muppet, Troy.’ The young lad replied with his thick Cockney accent, pulling him into a hug. ‘You know I am.’ Troye stood frozen, like a deer in headlights, unable to move any part of his body—at least not voluntarily. Did he just call him by his name? Perhaps he knew more than he let on. Troye didn’t know where he had seen him before, but there was a strange sense of familiarity—maybe at grammar school, in a dream, or even on TikTok, posting thirst traps under the guise of doing silly trends. The fact was that he was there, in his house, acting as if they had been mates for a lifetime. ’So, what’s up? What’s the emergency?’ he continued, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
What was going on? Since waking up, Troye hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that something was amiss. Had he lost his memory in his sleep? Or perhaps he had been abducted by aliens who, finding no use of him, dropped him back in his bed before dawn. Whatever the explanation, the possibilities were endless, and nothing felt real. As he tried to untangle the mystery, a thought struck him: in his former life, he had always longed for the friendship of someone like this bloke—a popular, good-looking, heart-throb charmer boy from the local grammar. Yet now, as he pondered the intriguing and enigmatic figure before him, he questioned if this was actually his reality. An absurd notion, but at the same time, it made sense.
