My Little Brother Asked Me a Question That Made Me Feel Like an NPC

My brother is in middle school, while I’ve been working for years. Every day, he calls me and excitedly rambles about whatever interesting things happened—even if nothing particularly exciting occurred, he’ll still tell me what he ate for lunch, what he had for dinner, or what he learned in class. And every day, I wait for his call.

Today, he was especially thrilled. He told me how a kid in his after-school program got scolded and cried, how he played basketball with his friends until 7:40 PM and almost tripped, nearly breaking his bracelet. He had steak for dinner—the one I marinated for him before the semester started—and pasta for lunch. Oh, and his test scores improved… He had so many little adventures to share.

Then he asked me: "So, what interesting things happened to you today?"

I froze. My mind went blank as I desperately tried to recall anything remotely noteworthy. The silence on the line suddenly expanded into a vast, existential void.

All I could think was how melancholic the sunset looked today.

The campus at dusk resembled Deleuze’s "body without organs"—every living being passing through it swaying at the threshold of becoming and deterritorialization. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gave a dry reply: "I didn’t eat much for lunch—no appetite. But I had a big dinner…"

The conversation naturally shifted to what I ate, and I exhaled in relief.

We chatted a little longer, said goodnight, and hung up.

And then it hit me—I felt like an NPC. At work, every day is the same: the same tasks, the same meals, the same commute. My routine is so rigid, my projects so tedious, my actions so repetitive. While my brother can pinpoint the exact spot of rosemary in his steak, I’ve even lost the rhythm of chewing—it’s just another unit of survival now.

Am I even alive? Or is my capacity for joy just weaker? Or is work really that dull? I don’t know. But for the first time, I wondered if Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence wasn’t a punishment but a gift—because when my brother calls again tomorrow, I might just learn to spot the unalienated flecks of light in the shadows of dusk.