Felix's life was anything but vibrant-cursed, he'd argue. To him, it was nothing short of horrendous, marked by relationships rife with daily disrespect and parents who prioritized alcohol above all else. As Felix's mental health reached a breaking...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As the night gradually gave way to the first light of morning, Hyunjin excused himself, his duty to his boxing practice calling him back, a reminder of the world moving forward, relentless and unyielding. His departure, though expected, left a void, a silent echo of the solitude that had become a familiar companion. It wasn't that I expected him to stay indefinitely, offering consolation for my grief as though I were a child lost to tears. Yet, his presence, however brief, had offered a rare sense of connection, a temporary reprieve from the isolation that gnawed at the edges of my existence.
People, I mused, rarely stick around. They orbit our lives, sometimes closer, sometimes at a distance, driven by their own needs, their own battles. It was a harsh truth, one that I had come to accept, albeit reluctantly. Each departure, each absence, chipped away at me, leaving me a little more fragmented, a little more lost.
Letting out a shaky breath, I forced myself to stand, the weight of my thoughts as oppressive as the heavy rain that began to pour down, a torrent that seemed intent on washing the world away. I made my way back to my boyfriend's house, a sanctuary not of comfort but of necessity, aware that he would be at work, the space empty, echoing with the silence of my return.
Slipping on my hoodie, I concealed the evidence of my tears, the redness of my eyes, and the flush of my face—a mask to hide the rawness of my pain from the world. Yet, beneath the physical disguise, a deeper longing remained unmasked: the desire to feel truly needed, to belong unequivocally to someone, to something, in a way that anchored me, that reassured me of my place in the world.
But such desires felt like whispers in the storm, drowned out by the rain, by the relentless pace of life that carried everyone else along. I walked back, each step a negotiation between the need to retreat and the faint, persistent hope that perhaps, someday, I would find that sense of belonging, that unequivocal need that seemed as elusive as the morning light filtering through the storm clouds.
Arriving at the house, the quiet was a stark contrast to the storm outside. The emptiness of the space mirrored the emptiness within me, a hollow echo of my longing for connection, for a sense of being irreplaceably needed.
As I peeled off my soaked hoodie, the weight of my solitude settled around me like a shroud. The silence of the house amplified my thoughts, each one a reminder of the distances—physical and emotional—that separated me from those I wished could understand.
Just as I was about to retreat into the solitude of the room we shared, my phone buzzed, a sudden intrusion into my contemplation. It was a message from my boyfriend: "Hope you're doing okay. Had to leave early for work. Let me know if you need anything."
The message, though brief, struck a chord. "Need anything..." I whispered to myself, a bitter laugh escaping me. What I needed was something intangible, something that couldn't be offered through a text or fulfilled with physical presence alone.
