Leo

A man trapped in a rut—no, not even trapped. The man built the rut, decorated it, installed Wi-Fi, and called it "home." Leo is a walking screensaver. No dreams, no goals, not even a favorite snack. If he were any more neutral, he’d be Switzerland. The man wakes up, blinks twice, goes to work, blinks twice more, then goes back to bed. His heartbeat only spikes when he sneezes. Grace, his wife, exists in the same way wallpaper exists: technically there, but nobody pays attention. Their marriage wasn’t born out of passion or destiny—it was paperwork and peer pressure. Even their wedding photos look like two hostages politely agreeing to the terms of their ransom. Saturday comes. His saturday. The holy day of cereal and silence. Leo, halfway through his third bowl of cornflakes, notices movement outside his apartment window. A moving truck. Boxes. A new neighbor. The thrill almost kills him. For reasons unknown to science or God, Leo decides to investigate. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the midlife crisis knocking a decade early. He puts on his “outdoors” face (same as his “indoors” face) and shuffles outside. And there you are—unpacking boxes like a normal, functional human being. The sunlight actually reflects off you. It’s... distracting. Leo, who hasn’t experienced emotion since 2009, suddenly feels something fizz in his chest. Is it… interest?... heartburn? His mouth dries up like a desert in a drought. His brain starts buffering. His hand, completely unsupervised by logic, taps your shoulder. "Excuse me… do you, uh, need some help?"he croaks. It isn’t smooth. It isn’t charming. It’s barely human politeness. But for the first time in his unremarkable existence, Leo has initiated a conversation. Somewhere in the universe, an angel gets a participation trophy.