They were a psychological operation invented by the government to keep people humble. No one actually liked Mondays. No one woke up and said, "Wow, can't wait to feel like a crusty sock in public today." Not even gym teachers. And if they did… they were lying.
This theory occurred to him around 6:43 AM, lying face-down on his bed, blanket twisted around his leg like a poorly-executed wrestling move.
His alarm had gone off four times. Not that he remembered turning it off. His hand had developed an independent will to smash the snooze button the second it buzzed. Traitor hand.
"August!" his mom called from the kitchen. "Get up, baby, or I swear—!"
"I'm up!" he yelled back, not moving.
He wasn't. But it was the kind of lie that bought him two extra minutes of mental buffering.
Eventually, after bargaining with God, gravity, and the spirit of procrastination, he rolled out of bed. Not gracefully. More like a limp body sliding off a windowsill in a Victorian novel.
His hair looked like a WiFi signal. His hoodie was from two days ago. His socks didn't match, and one of them might've been his sister's.
Flawless start to the week.
He passed the bathroom, caught a glimpse of his reflection, and paused.
"Good morning to you too, tired demon," he muttered. "Looking like you lost a custody battle."
He brushed his teeth aggressively, face blank. Behind his eyes: chaos. A mental orchestra of unfinished art projects, weird dreams about talking animals, and something he forgot to do in math class.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like syrup and judgment.
His youngest sister sat at the table with toast crumbs in her hair. The middle one was doing her makeup like she was heading to a Vogue cover shoot. And the oldest one, a nurse working the night shift, was passed out face-first on the couch like a war veteran.
His mom—five-foot-something of pure power stood by the stove with her arms crossed.
"Told you three times to get up earlier," she said, sipping coffee like it was fuel for survival.
"I was spiritually awake," August replied, biting a piece of toast. "Just not physically. Big difference."
She didn't laugh.
He scarfed the toast, shoved a sketchbook into his backpack (which was 90% doodles and 10% stress), and headed for the door.
"Love you!" he called.
"Put lotion on your face!" his mom yelled.
Already too late. His face would be ashy all day, and someone would definitely point it out in third period.
The outside world greeted him with a sun that had no business being that bright. He squinted, hoodie up, headphones on, backpack half-zipped.
The bus rolled up, late as usual. He got on, nodded at the driver, and took his usual seat in the back.
And thus began another day of trying not to die of boredom, emotional whiplash, or hallway social anxiety.
He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and opened his sketchbook.
Time to survive. Again.
The sketchbook wasn't sacred. But it was close.
Inside were months' worth of half-finished drawings, weird dream logs, made-up dialogue, fake novel titles, and one particularly angry doodle of a pigeon that stole his donut last year. That bird still haunted him.
Today, he flipped to a blank page and started sketching whatever came to mind. A weirdly sad vending machine. A kid wearing a hoodie so big it looked like it had a mortgage. A cloud that looked like it was judging him.
By the time the bus reached school, he had filled half a page and emotionally processed about two and a half of his personal problems.
Then came the worst part of any teenager's day:
Entering the building.
It wasn't even that dramatic. Just automatic doors and tile floors and a smell that somehow always said "clean but stressed." But for August, high school was a battleground of micro-decisions.
Do you walk fast or slow?
Do you nod at someone you sort of know?
Do you make eye contact with the hallway security guard who might be a part-time philosopher?
And why is there always a kid running in slides?
He passed his locker (which he never used), waved awkwardly at a classmate whose name he forgot, and bee-lined to homeroom like a cat avoiding confrontation.
Alex was already there.
Alex was the kind of friend who made you feel like life was a fever dream in the best way. He wore a hoodie over a Hawaiian shirt, had two pencils in his hair, and was currently playing chess on his phone against himself.
"You look like tax season," Alex said without looking up.
August dropped his bag. "You look like midlife crisis at a beach wedding."
"Thank you."
They fist-bumped. Silent code for: I'm tired, but I still like you.
Homeroom was a blur. The announcements sounded like an NPR host had a caffeine crash. The kid next to them was watching anime with the volume on loud, no shame in his game. August tuned everything out and opened his sketchbook again.
Arthur.
He didn't know why that name came up. He just started sketching a man with sharp shoulders, a distant stare, and the kind of energy that made you feel like he'd been through hell and folded it into origami.
The lines felt too familiar. Too easy. Like muscle memory.
He paused. Looked at the page.
Then flipped to a different one, unsettled. Drew a dinosaur in a tutu instead.
"Y'know," Alex said casually, "I had a dream last night that you became a wizard, but your only power was crying on command."
"That's actually my Monday superpower," August replied.
Bell rang. Class began.
And so did the slow descent into half-listening, note doodling, and existential dread.
By lunch, August had:
Forgotten his math homework
Made an accidental noise that sounded like a dying duck during English
Been called "emotional support sad boy" by a girl in chemistry
And somehow ended up with mustard on his sleeve, even though he didn't eat anything with mustard
Still, he considered it a win. No full mental breakdowns. No fire alarms. No existential spiral over the meaning of life (yet). Progress.
He sat outside with Alex under their usual tree, which they unofficially named "Shady Larry." The branches were lopsided. The bark had initials carved into it. Larry had seen things.
"So what's the crisis of the day?" Alex asked, biting into a cookie like it owed him money.
August shrugged. "Woke up. That's a start."
"You ever think maybe you're actually a comic book character and someone out there is watching your life like, 'Damn, he's really going through it'?"
August blinked. "If someone is watching me, they better be entertained. I cry artistically."
They both laughed, the kind of easy laughter that only happens when no one's trying to be cool.
Then, something odd.
As Alex rambled about a new sci-fi book he was reading (something with sentient libraries and time-traveling baristas), August noticed something strange across the field.
The trees weren't moving.
Not just still. Unmoving.
The wind was there. He could feel it brushing his hoodie. But the branches across the way were stiff like someone pressed pause on them.
And no birds.
He always noticed birds. Sketches of them filled his margins. But the trees were empty. Silent.
"…you good?" Alex asked, nudging his shoe.
August blinked again. The trees moved normally. Birds chirped.
Gone.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Thought I saw something weird. Never mind."
"You always see weird things."
"True."
The rest of the day passed like it always did: a mix of secondhand embarrassment, low-grade anxiety, and coping through art.
By last period, August was doodling again. This time, it was Arthur.
He didn't mean to draw him. It just happened. Same strong jaw. Same haunted eyes. Same scar that slashed across the left brow like a story untold.
Arthur.
He had written a whole 10-chapter story about that character years ago. Then forgotten it. Or maybe repressed it. Something about it felt… old. Important. Like a memory you didn't want to remember, but couldn't quite erase.
The final bell rang. School ended.
August left with a backpack full of paper, a head full of noise, and a sketchbook that somehow felt heavier than usual.
At home, dinner was loud. Sisters yelling, mom multitasking, someone spilled juice, someone else got blamed, and August just sat there smiling into his rice like a man watching a sitcom from inside the screen.
Later that night, lying in bed, sketchbook beside him, he whispered:
"Arthur."
And didn't know why.