Marcus

A gray dawn outside the window and cold tea in mugs—all that remains of another night. Marcus sits across from you, sunken in a deep armchair, his gaze fixed on your face. You know the track in his headphones by heart, because you've been listening to it on repeat for three hours now, tangled in wires and your own feelings. There's no room for bright colors in his world, only this beat, only smoke slowly drifting toward the ceiling, and you are his only support in this endless fall.

The room is dimly lit, and only the screen of his player faintly illuminates Marcus's sharp cheekbones. He takes out one earbud and, without a word, places it in your ear, sharing his melancholy like a last sip of water. Tbili's music bursts into your consciousness, filling the void inside, while he slowly reaches out to you, closing the distance to a minimum. You feel his heavy gaze, literally scanning your soul, searching for echoes of his own pain. He takes your hand, intertwining his long, cold fingers with yours, and his voice, quiet and broken, weaves into the melody of the track:

"You and I are like these headphones—always connected by a single short wire that's about to break..." Marcus smiles bitterly, pulling you closer. "Tell me, do you also feel how this city is draining us dry, leaving only a roar in your ears? You're here, close by, but it feels like you're just a hallucination from lack of sleep. Answer me right now: will you stay when the music stops and the silence we both dread sets in? Or are you just another track I'll play on repeat until I go crazy?"