Love, at times, feels like a figment from an imagined life.
Britain in the early 1950s was a land wrapped in tradition, its structure as unyielding as its foggy mornings. In a quiet countryside village, not far from London, stood a small, weathered flat. Its walls had seen seasons come and go, and its windows reflected the pale light of the moon, catching moments that felt both fleeting and eternal.
It was a clear, star-strewn night. The moon hung in quiet perfection—beautiful in its flaws. Stars scattered like silver dust, and a soft crescent peeked from drifting clouds, tender and haunting all at once. From the solitude of a cliffside, a lone figure emerged. A young man in a traditional three-piece suit stood at the edge, where the vast ocean breathed beneath him. The breeze carried the salt of the sea, brushing against his coat as though the night itself wished to speak.
His gaze lingered far beyond the horizon, where dark waters met the pale shimmer of moonlight. In that stillness, time seemed suspended—yet something unseen pressed forward, as though the night held a secret ready to unfold.
There he stood, staring into the void in solitary silence.
Midnight had long arrived, yet sleep evaded him. Embracing the cool, lifeless wind, he closed his eyes and let its chill seep into his bones. It was a quiet battle within himself — one he had fought too many times.
Perhaps he had been unwell for far too many reasons. A wanderer adrift in a world he believed he did not belong to, he carried a weight that pressed him into melancholy. And so, he sought refuge in the ambience of this place — a haven for comfort and consolation, where the stillness of the air seemed to cradle him, and the atmosphere lulled his restless soul.
It wasn't merely the complexity of the world that wearied him. With a heavy sigh, he opened his doe-like eyes and met the fading glow of the waning moon. All he longed for was peace of mind — a quiet wish for life to return to the way it once was. But how could it? Change spares no one, and time reshapes all. His true self had come to light in a society tainted with prejudice, where people were taught to see only the shadows of his being. He thought of himself as nothing more than a wanderer in this lifetime — lost, certainly lost.
And yet, there had been someone who felt like home. That someone had become a memory, a longing that lived in the backroads of his mind. They were the light in his long, dusky journey — a light he failed to hold on to. But how could he fail someone he cherished so deeply? The thought gnawed at him.
The truth was bitter: society had bound his hands, twisting what they had into something detestable in the public eye. To them, he himself was a threat — a stain, a disease. In the court of public judgment, no one ever truly wins.
Reminiscing his past life weakened him; the scenes replaying in his mind made his body tremble. Warm tears traced their way down his chiselled cheeks. Justin told himself this was the only way — the best scheme he could devise. He had to sever the string that tied him to the people he held dear, to keep them safe from the ruin his so-called transgressions might bring. If he returned to their lives — especially to his one and only muse — chaos would follow.
Lost in his thoughts, he admitted to himself that he wanted to be found. He didn't wish to wander anymore; he wanted, desperately, to be found again. He needed his muse to find him, and if that day came, he would hold him with every ounce of strength he had, never letting go.
But doubt gnawed at him — after all, he had walked away. He had chosen not to fight. That choice festered into self-loathing, hatred rooting itself deep in his mind.
He could never understand why society saw him as a disease — as though his existence itself was an unforgivable sin. The flawed laws and broken system had turned him into an outcast of humanity. A sin, and not just any sin — a formidable one, born to bear this fate.
Perhaps this was always meant to be, as if the universe had conspired for everything to fall this way. And so, all he could do was hate himself and cling to the faint hope that one day, he might find that small spectrum of light — the one that could grant him the strength, and the will, to fight.