Night folds over him like a second skin. He lies next to someone he’d die for— but dying would require having lived. And living would require feeling the knife.
In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.
He wakes to the sound of his own silence. No alarm. No birds. No blood rush behind his ears. Just the hum of a world that forgot to wait for him.
He drives home through streets he knows by heart but cannot love. The radio plays a song he used to cry to. Now it’s just sound passing through.
Night folds over him like a second skin. He lies next to someone he’d die for— but dying would require having lived. And living would require feeling the knife.
In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.
He wakes to the sound of his own silence. No alarm. No birds. No blood rush behind his ears. Just the hum of a world that forgot to wait for him.
He drives home through streets he knows by heart but cannot love. The radio plays a song he used to cry to. Now it’s just sound passing through.
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