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He was alone.

It had been at least half an hour since anything had made a sound. His phone hung carelessly from the nightstand beside his bed. Her words still echoed in his head with the magnitude of an atom bomb.

"I can't do this anymore."

It was chilly in his apartment. The kind of chilly where just thinking about how cold it is gives you goosebumps. But he wasn't going to turn down the air. It's a lot easier to shield the ice than it is to smother the fire.

"It's just too much."

The empty halls of his apartment unexpectedly resounded with the sound of an oven timer. The meal he had been preparing for her was ready. He stood emotionlessly and stepped toward the kitchen.

"I need some time for myself… okay?"

He removed the chicken fettuccine from the scalding oven rack slowly and placed it on the counter. It was her favorite.

"I'm sorry, James."

He felt his eyes glaze over as he clutched the metal spatula beside his fork and scooped a serving of the meal onto a single plate. If he had been thinking, he would have realized he wouldn't eat it anyway.

He carried the dish with mechanical movement to his computer desk, silently sliding it in front of his monitor. His body gracefully flowed into the cushioned chair behind him.

There was an unnamed feeling inside of him. Anger? Melancholy? Regret? He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, but he could feel it consuming what was left of his heart like a cancer. He had to carry on like nothing had happened, he thought, or he would become the embodiment of that feeling.

He tried to think back to the start of this – to what had brought him to eating dinner alone in the computer chair of the apartment he had spent the afternoon cleaning.

His single mother stopped returning his calls and checking up on him. His so-called friends avoided him at every chance meeting. His girlfriend of fifteen months had left him without a solid reason. Even at the local seafood restaurant, where he had been working double shifts to have the weekend off for her, people seemed ignorant – if not completely unaware – of his existence. It was like seeing the entire world grimace and turn its back.

He then shoved the plate of food to the corner of his desk. His senses had become so dulled that he could no longer smell the meal.

Twenty-seven seconds passed. His eyes slid lifelessly to the large window to the left of his computer monitor overlooking a playground outside.

No sound had left his mouth since that fateful phone call. His lips felt like frozen glaciers, hiding the barren wasteland behind them.

He had no reason to speak. There was nothing to say and no one to say it to.

It was night outside. A cold night, to be sure. Clouds cloaked the sky in a blue-grey haze. It must have been twice as chilly out there than it was in his apartment.

The vacant swing sets stood like stone, as if the playground was an outer manifestation of his soul. All the things he thought, the words he said, the clothes he wore – even that little blue spray can of deodorant that was always lying on the floor – they meant nothing when there was no one to see them.

A flicker.

James focused his eyes on the flash of movement beyond the playground that attracted them.

Something outside?

The memory of how cold the room was inexplicably flooded his mind again.

Someone out there, at this hour?

Chillbumps puckered from his forearms.

He stood quickly and placed a hand on the window. There was a figure out there, moving frantically, almost blindingly. It was as if it was trying to get his attention. He pulled his face closer to the glass.

It was a young man. He was moving his mouth and his arms were flailing, like he was screaming.

He placed two fingers on each window lock. He pulled as hard as he could. The window was stuck. He never really had to open it before.

The young man was turning his head left and right. He wore a look of helpless despair the likes of which he had never seen.

He pounded the window profusely. He was starting to panic himself.

The young man lowered his arms. The look on his face could be described only as pure horror.

The door.

James turned and stumbled quickly to the apartment's exit. He tossed the lock to the left and twisted the knob.

He slid into the night air. It was cold. A lot colder than he would've thought.

His feet glided effortlessly down the flight of stairs to the left of his apartment. The lingering air stung his face.

He grabbed the handle of the gate and shoved it open without stopping. As he ran, his lips split for the first time in an hour. The chilly wind nearly choked him.
Not much longer now.

He ran past the playground. He imagined he would've heard the young man's voice by now.

Not much further now.

Just above this hill, he had seen him. Just a few more seconds.

He rose to the height of the knoll, stopping dead in his tracks.

Nothing.

He spun his head around quickly. There wasn't even a sound.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Is anyone there!?"

Silence.

He was completely alone.

His breathing slowed. He lowered his arms. For twenty-seven seconds he stood, staring into the starless blue-gray sky.

Something moved. From the corner of his eye, he saw it.

He turned his head slowly. His eyes lifted beyond the playground to face his apartment window.

Through the cool night breeze, he saw a young man, screaming and pounding on the glass.

Yeah some of it does describe how I feel.