I awoke in my dark room where the bed was too crowded, courtesy of his slim body.
I took a look into the mirror and I hated seeing the spots where he had kissed me; not because I did not enjoy it, but because such kisses were meaningless, as is everything in life. Because though I thought of him endlessly in his absence, somehow now with him here I don't feel any different than before. Nothing is different, he is merely a stranger in my bed, a distraction from my vacant state.  

So he can go ahead and say with empty eyes that he loves me, he can say he misses me and sleep next to somebody else, he can say he understands when he is not listening, and nothing will be any different; because I am composed of despondency and darkness. He will never inflict as much pain in me as life has. 

As I make my way back into my room I smell cigarette smoke, he is sitting at the edge of the bed smoking. When he sees me he asks why I'd been crying.
"I was thinking."
"What of?"
"You."
He frowns a little, "did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why did you cry?"
"Sometimes I just do when I realize how fucked I am."
"You're not, you're wonderful."
"You don't know me Ian."
"But I want to know you, I want to help you."
"You can't, no one can, the sole purpose of my existence is to explore the limits of human suffering, I am God's sick joke."
"That's a load of rubbish" he says annoyed taking a deep drag from his cig, "you pity yourself too much."
A small laugh escapes my dry lips. "But I do not. I never asked your help, I never ask for anyone's help. I keep my thoughts and feelings for myself and If I pity anyone it must be you."
"Me?" He asks looking back at me.
"Yes you. You're married to someone who you do not love because you are afraid."
"I'm not afraid" he scoffs.
"Of course you are, you are afraid of commitment, you are afraid of loneliness and above all you are afraid of accepting that you are not happy. But I can read you like a book. You're as fucked as I am, the only difference is you do pity yourself and that's why you hide your desperation. I do not because I am too consumed by it to give a fuck about other people's perception of me. I'm just waiting for my death."

His gaze remains upon my eyes as he processes all I have said, then he looks down placing the cigarette butt on one of my ashtrays. He gets up slowly putting his clothes on and leaves. 

*Shift in Narration*

The cool wind hit hard against my face followed by various haunting thoughts as I made my way into the night. Her words were eerie, each one true, each a thought I hid desperately in lyrics people were not meant to pay attention to. Yet she hadn't even heard such songs, she just knew. And that was the reason why she intrigued me, I thought that was the reason why I had to find her again. But what good is it being told the things you deny to yourself? I only feel worse, I feel farce.

I drop on the steps of my home like a dead man with arms tight around my legs, head tucked into my torso resting on my knees. I wish I could disappear entirely, I wish no one would remember, I wish I just didn't exist.