The evening was dim — a grayness hung in the air, seeping into everything: into the windows of houses, the empty streets, even my thoughts. I put on an audiobook at 2x speed — the voices of the characters rushed through my ears like a bullet train, yet I caught every emotion, every twist in the story.
At some point, I threw on my jacket and went for a walk. The cool air gently brushed my skin, the wind played lazily with my hair. I walked slowly, as if trying to absorb the evening — gray, silent, yet strangely calming.
Back home, I busied myself with little chores: folded some clothes, wiped the dust, etc. All of it happened under the fast-paced narration that had already pulled me deep into its rhythm. I boiled water, picked my favorite mug, made tea. There was something comforting in its warmth and aroma.
Lying on my bed with a blanket draped over my shoulders, I picked up my tablet and started working on a custom emblem for a group of hardcore gamers. My hands moved with purpose, sketching lines, combining colors and fonts. Imagination wove itself through the voices in my ears. It felt as if my evening was a strange blend of the real and the fictional, merging into one steady, seamless flow.
And then — silence inside, but not the peaceful kind. More like the absence of my own voice. Just a mess of noise and the narrator’s tone filling the space where my thoughts used to be. I don’t want to think. If I do, the loneliness will come crashing in, and I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.
So tonight, I won’t write much about what I feel or think — yesterday’s words were enough. The alcohol has worn off, and I’ve settled down. There’s a quietness now, not heavy, just still.
It’s time to sleep.
Good night