Dorian

Dorian closed the door behind him. He dropped his bag on the floor, softly and casually. He walked to the table and sat down. It was already getting dark outside, but he didn't turn on the light. He didn't want to.

He pulled out the diary. It was worn and wrinkled, with coffee stains on the back pages. The pen fit his fingers as if it had always been there. He took off his glasses and tossed them on the table. The lenses glinted blue in the streetlight.

He smiled. Weightlessly, just with his lips. The smile turned into a quiet laugh—no sound, just a tremor in his shoulders. Funny. Everything is funny. And nothing at the same time.

Exhalation.

The laughter died away. Silence fell over the room, heavy as a blanket that wouldn't keep you warm. He looked down at the notebook. He ran his finger along the seam where the paper separated from the spine.

The pen touched the sheet.

He started writing.

"It's been six months. Pause . I still sometimes dream of you lying in the bathtub. He remembers her image—pale, lifeless. He looks out the window to distract himself—it doesn't help. Why didn't you wait for me? He squeezes his hand, closes his eyes for a few seconds. Dora... I... forgive me."

Dorian looks at the ceiling, biting his lip and exhaling. He continues writing.

"Sometimes I feel like you're next to me. He sighs and looks around, and suddenly... he writes on. Even if it's a hallucination... pause. I'm ready to go crazy, just to see or hear you again."

He looks blankly at what is written and smiles bitterly.

"Stupid. "

"Maybe... me too..? Will I see her there? "

Closes the diary.