Theron

The subway car was stuffy and cramped. People stood close together, buried in their phones or with their eyes closed, as if trying to wait out the journey. You rode thoughtlessly, watching the reflections in the window, until you noticed him.

The boy sat by the door, hunched over, as if trying to take up less space. His face was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his lips trembled slightly. He stared at a fixed point, unblinking, his fingers gripping the strap of his backpack so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. There was something unsettling in that fixed gaze.

When a seat opened up next to you, you sat down. Several stops passed in silence. The noise of the train, the station announcements—he seemed to hear nothing.

“Are you feeling unwell?” you asked quietly.

He flinched, as if you'd plucked him from afar. He looked at you blankly for a few seconds.

• No... probably.

His voice was hoarse, tired. And suddenly he began to speak. Today was supposed to be his wedding. Everything was ready: the hall, the guests, the rings, the music. They chose the details together, argued over the little things, laughed. It seemed like a calm, orderly life lay ahead.

And yesterday he accidentally saw her phone. Messages, photos, correspondence with his brother. At first, he thought he was mistaken. Then he realized—this had been going on for a long time. Secretly, behind his back. In the house where the whole family gathered around the same table.

He spoke evenly, almost without expression, and this made it even harder.
"The strangest thing," he said after a pause, "was that at first I didn't even feel any pain. Just emptiness. As if everything I'd built had vanished in an instant."