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A Toast to Nothing (Part 7)
By Thomas Miller
After I finished writing Richard’s story, I sat there in silence, staring at the words on the screen.
I had spent my life crafting narratives, weaving tragedies, building characters who suffered, fought, and sometimes found redemption. But this was different. This was real.
There was no redemption for Richard. No great lesson to be learned.
Just a man who wasted his life and died alone.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. I should’ve felt relief, but all I felt was exhaustion.
Maybe Daniel had the right idea. Maybe forgetting Richard was the only way to move forward. Maybe that was the only thing he had ever deserved.
But I wasn’t built like that.
I couldn’t just erase him.
The Last Visit
Two weeks after I finished writing his story, I went back to the cemetery.
It was drizzling, the kind of slow, relentless rain that seeps into your bones. The unmarked grave looked no different—just a patch of dirt, no flowers, no sign that anyone had ever stood there before.
I crouched down, resting my hand on the damp earth.
“You always thought you were better than everyone,” I murmured. “Smarter. More important. But in the end, the world moved on without you.”
The rain pattered against my coat. I sighed, shaking my head.
“I don’t know if you ever had a moment of clarity before you did it. I don’t know if you regretted anything before you tied that rope. But I do know this, Richard—if you ever wondered if anyone cared…” I exhaled. “I was the only one left.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small metal flask. The same flask I had poured over his grave the last time I visited.
I took a sip.
The burn was sharp, bitter.
I poured the rest onto the dirt.
One last drink. One last toast.
“To a man who thought the world owed him something,” I whispered. “And to a world that forgot him anyway.”
I stood up, watching as the whiskey soaked into the earth, disappearing.
Just like him.
The Call from Daniel
The next morning, Daniel called me. I almost didn’t answer.
“What?” I said, keeping my voice flat.
There was a pause. Then, his voice came through, quieter than usual.
“I read what you wrote.”
I blinked. “How?”
“You left it on your website.”
I hadn’t expected him to see it. I had put it up without thinking, a late-night decision fueled by whiskey and regret. A story that no one was supposed to read.
“You really want people to remember him?” Daniel asked.
I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Another pause. Then—
“Maybe that’s more than he deserved.”
I didn’t argue. Maybe Daniel was right. Maybe Richard deserved to be forgotten, just another name lost to time.
But some part of me—some foolish, sentimental part—couldn’t let that happen.
“Listen,” Daniel said. “I don’t think about him. I don’t want to think about him. But… I think you do. So if writing about him helps, then fine. Do what you have to do.”
It was the closest thing to approval I would ever get from him.
Before he hung up, he added, “Just don’t let it drag you down, Thomas.”
I stared at my phone long after the call ended.
I had spent so much time writing about Richard, about his failures, his anger, his loneliness.
But if I wasn’t careful, I would become just like him.
Living in the past. Drowning in resentment. Waiting for the world to notice something it never would.
I closed my laptop.
Maybe Daniel was right.
Maybe it was time to let go.
The Story That No One Cared About
I left Richard’s story online for a while. A few people read it, left comments, but most just scrolled past.
No one really cared.
No one ever would.
Eventually, I took it down.
Not because I wanted to forget, but because I had finally realized—
Richard was never going to be anything more than what he had been.
He wasn’t a tragic genius.
He wasn’t a misunderstood thinker.
He wasn’t special.
He was just a man who drank himself into oblivion and died alone.
No one mourned him.
No one remembered him.
And in the end, the only thing left of him was a story that no one cared to read.
Maybe that was the real tragedy.
Or maybe, it wasn’t a tragedy at all.