Restless, blind

He was exhausted—tired of that place, of the people around him, of all those plastic faces. But what could he expect? He had never left the way he wanted to. He was always unable to finish anything he started—projects, dreams, all the things he cared about. Somehow, he always ended up putting them aside.

He felt trapped, not just by the place, but by his own fears and thoughts. No matter what happened, he never said what should’ve been said or did what should’ve been done. He felt hopeless, broken.

He had never truly fallen in love. He thought he had, several times. But in the end, it always turned into disappointment. Even though he had sworn eternal love on more than one occasion, it was never real. His moments of peace were always tied to music and coffee. He could sit in that cafe for hours with his earphones in, just watching people pass by. For each one, he would create a story: "That woman lives in a flat with four cats. She loves cats. She must be a nurse—she’s all dressed in white. Yeah, she’s a nurse for sure. And her friends always ask her when she's going to find someone to date, but she’s happy. Even though she lives alone with her cats, she doesn’t care."

He did that often, making up stories about strangers—stories that weren’t true. For quite some time, that's how he spent most of his days.

All he wanted was to fill the emptiness somehow—with someone, something, anything. But he was too blind to realize that the void inside could only be filled by himself.