Yes, call me whatever you want. It's not my problem. I don't give a fuck.
Because the world in my head? It's better. Cleaner. Controlled. It makes sense.
And maybe that's the problem.
I get lost in it. My fantasy world. It's detailed. Precise. Safe. I slip into it so easily that the real world starts to feel like background noise. (Sigh )
Yeah. That's my life. No regrets. My life. What about it?
I live in New York City, and I work at a hotel. I don't earn much, but it pays the bills. And so what?
Besides work, there's nothing. No friends. No late-night calls. No "Are you home safe?" texts.
They say, "Show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are."
Funny.
I am my friend. I talk to myself. I understand myself. That's more than most people can say.
Sometimes I sit for hours imagining a different version of things. A perfect world. A perfect life. In my head, I have friends. I have a relationship. I am wanted. Chosen. Loved.
Love. What is love, really? A word people use when they're afraid to say obsession? Or need? Or loneliness?
Every day feels recycled. Copy. Paste. Repeat. Same lobby. Same streets. Same silence when I get home.
But then… I saw her.
An angel. Not in a halo kind of way. Not divine. Just… alive. Real. Standing there, crossing the street, and somehow the city slowed. Everything moved in slow motion. I could see every movement, every breath, every small detail.
And I wanted her.
I walked past her. Wished we could meet again.
I imagined it all: the life together, the dates, moving in, the proposal, the pregnancy… I smiled in my head, a life I thought I could have, a life where I wouldn't be alone.
The next day, she was at her window. I waved. She waved back. My heart felt alive again.
We spoke, finally. Tiny conversations, shy smiles, shared steps on the street. She told me she worked from home. I asked her for coffee. Maybe someday…
I imagined all the moments we could share.
And then the next day came.
She was at my door, and before I could even speak, she kissed me.
Soft. Warm. Real.
"There's no need to chase each other around, Ethan," she whispered. "Let's just go for it."
"Yes," I breathed, letting myself feel it all. "Yes, let's."
We went on our first proper date. Weeks later, she moved in. Months later, she was pregnant. And one quiet evening, I got down on one knee.
"Lena," I said, voice shaking but steady, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?"
"Yes, Ethan. Yes," she said, and I felt whole. Alive.
But then… I realized.
It was all just imagination.
Back on that street, same spot, same slow motion. She was real. The life I dreamed — gone.
We finally passed each other. I wanted to say something, anything.
And then the car came.
She didn't make it.
The city moved on. The streets continued. But for me, everything stopped.
The world in my head, my fantasies, my slow-motion moments — they were all I had left.
I sank to the sidewalk, numb, broken, completely alone.
And then I understood something about myself.
I'm the problem. I know I can never be in a relationship, not really. I can feel it — a darker me, hidden somewhere inside. I haven't seen that part of me, and maybe that's why I don't get angry at all. Why I retreat into my head. Why I need it. It's not just escape. It's protection.
A reason to stay in my world, where I can imagine, where I can feel, where no one gets hurt.
But it doesn't matter now. She's gone.
And I'm still here.
Alone.
The end.