“Stephen and Anna”
Stephen’s apartment was in an old building from the late 19th century, seven stories, no elevator. The fatigue of life piled up with each creaky step he took, each ascent felt like a reminder that he was sinking into an indescribable predicament. Sometimes, he thought about climbing the stairs to improve his health, but in the end, he always compromised. Life, like his body, seemed to quietly surrender.
Anna, on the other hand, was outgoing. She could easily become the center of attention in any crowd. Every time she returned from a business trip, she brought with her a burst of energy and stories, like a breeze, carrying warmth and light. Her optimism easily dispelled the dark clouds in Stephen’s heart. Although Stephen wasn’t much for talking, he would always listen to Anna chat about everything, her voice the only color in his monotonous life.
However, Anna’s frequent business trips often took her away, leaving Stephen to face the empty apartment alone. When night fell, loneliness and emptiness flooded in like an uncontrollable tide, and Stephen felt as if his existence was slipping away, leaving his heart a blank canvas. The occasional sound of a cat’s meow would break the silence, offering a distant form of comfort.
On the drive home, he often felt his eyelids heavy, almost unable to keep them open. The city lights blurred in his eyes, like a painting slowly fading out of reach. His phone alarm was set for seven or eight different times, each one reminding him: wake up, run, read, work. He knew all too well that these alarms were just ornaments, not tools to change his life.
The office felt like a cold stage, with everyone putting on a facade. The smiles on the surface were just masks for the indifference beneath, and it made Stephen feel even more distant. He became increasingly silent, avoiding unnecessary conversations with his colleagues. When he did speak, his words were blunt and brief, just trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Dialogue had become a burden, not a bridge for communication.
Occasional “concern” from his family felt like a moral shackle, constantly pressing down on his shoulders. He knew they meant well, but their concern often felt suffocating, as though every word carried with it great expectations and responsibilities. Whether it was “You should get married,” “Why haven’t you changed jobs yet?” or “You need to think about your future,” these words felt like a heavy stone pressing against his chest.
Despite all of this, Stephen continued with his daily routine. He found himself immersed in social networks, scrolling through irrelevant information, as if this could temporarily numb his mind and prevent him from confronting the troubling questions that had been haunting him.
The morning commute was still long, and outside the car window, the city slowly woke up in the dawn light. When he reached the office, he would put on his headphones as usual, shutting out the noise of the world. In these moments, he could find a bit of peace, undisturbed by the daily trivialities. It was in these small moments that he found solace—his own time.
That night, he kept playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” on repeat. When he heard the line: “I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all,” it was as if he had received some sort of permission, permission to be sad, permission to not explain. That feeling was like a silent proclamation, as if all the pain could be understood, even accepted.
Epilogue:
One morning, Stephen once again put on his headphones and climbed the stairs. With each step, his body felt heavier, but he kept going. He didn’t have a clear goal, nor any expectation that things would change; he was simply walking, silently moving forward. Perhaps, this was all he could do—the only thing he could do.
He heard the sound of a cat meowing, and stopped for a moment. Without speaking, he softly replied, “I heard you.”
Then, he continued up the stairs.
Picture
- A Champions League moment between Chelsea duo and Man United’s No.7.
Quote
- Few things are impossible to diligence and skill.
