Once upon a time, there was a small boy. He was an average child, loved to learn, always obeyed his parents. He was the child that the other parents were envy of. Their jealous look embedded into his mind as they tried to wrangle their unruly rebellious children.
Even when he was a teenager, he stayed mostly silent, adopting the policy that he wouldn’t talk unless he had anything meaningful to say. His parents took him to many psychologists starting at the age of six, because he “was never happy.”
“What is happiness?” he would always ask them, to which they replied with stuttering remarks about chemicals and hormones and success in life. After a while, they all gave up, recommending that he be put in a mental ward. His parents would just nod, knowing it wouldn't help, they had already exhausted every option.

One day, when he was seventeen, his english teacher asked him what he thought the meaning of life was. he replied simply, “Does there have to be one?” His answer was immediate, though as the day dragged on, he kept thinking about that question.
When he got home, he walked to his room silently, laying on his bed, his eyes closed, but he was far from sleep. he lay there for a while, thinking a million miles an hour, about the question that had plagued him for the past few hours.
The next few days he stayed in a coma like sleep. After the second day, his parents dragged him to the ER, his eyes still shut and his brain ignoring the sounds around him, focused only on the question.
After another day, the hospital decided to start feeding him intravenously, tubes and wires protruding from both arms. after a while, the doctors determined he was still awake, just unresponsive. Just... Thinking
After a year, his parents tried to erase him from their memory, they even had another child. A normal, troublesome child who was a relief from the seeming heartlessness of their last child. But he wasn't heartless, just thinking.
Eventually, a fund set aside for vegetables by a wealthy old man picked up the hospital bills. Acquaintances from school stopped visiting, moved on with their lives. Even his one friend eventually stopped coming, her last visit consisting of silence, then four words, “Don’t leave me alone”
His thoughts faltered at that, stopping a moment to weigh his options. That thought was quickly buried under the enormous question that had left him weak and pale. He thought again of the meaning of life, his half consciousness serving as enough sleep.
Years passed, his mind racing. More tests had been done, as well as an MRI, revealing that his brain was awake and aware. A few doctors spent years studying him, all leaving as clueless as they had arrived.

When he was 28 a Buddhist monk visited him in silence, observing in awe of his meditative state. Eventually the monk came back, with his teacher and peers, they all sat in silence on the floor beside his bed. After a day, the sage stood up, bowing to the boy, and the monks left, in wonder and curiosity.

Decades came and left, but the concept of time had disappeared in the wake of the ultimate question.

When he was 89, his eyes opened, staring at the ceiling silently. One of the nurses helped him sit up after notifying the Doctors. He drank a cup of water, glancing around silently. They stared back, wondering what the old man would do next.

“I know”

“know what?” one of the doctors asked softly.

“The meaning of life. It is death. A competition, of what you do in life. so that means... My life means nothing. All this time, thousands of calculations, and I didn’t live. I didn't live, I could have, I could have gotten married, but instead I just lay here, useless.” He croaked, silent tears streaming down his old face. “I left her alone.” he sighed, regrets coursing through his mind faster than the question had burned in his mind. With that, he closed his eyes again, and with nothing to live for, he died peacefully.

A minute later an old woman hobbled into the room.

“I- I heard he woke up."