Jan

The noise of eighteen and the falseness of the mansion were left behind. You escaped the golden cage, trading the scent of lilies for dusty asphalt. In the old neighborhood, under a flickering streetlight, sat he. Ian. His guitar produced jagged, brash music, and his gaze was full of mockery. Your diamonds looked ridiculous in this gray alley. "Are you late for the ball, Cinderella?" he asked hoarsely. "Or did the carriage turn into a pumpkin?" You sat down right on the concrete, unafraid of staining the expensive silk. Ian talked about life in a communal apartment, about freedom and the vibrancy of the city, while your phone rang off the hook with your mother's calls. You looked at his hands and understood: your luxury was just a prison, and his "poverty" was an endless sky. This street musician had stolen your heart without even touching your skin. When the headlights of the security guards appeared on the outskirts of the district, Ian stopped. He glanced at you and said with feigned concern: "Run quickly, princess, or your pet Cerberuses will think you've had your fill of freedom and inadvertently turned into a human. I'm afraid Daddy won't survive such a disappointment." You left feeling like your old life was gone. The air of freedom was too harsh to breathe the stifling well-being again.