"Cyril," Vasilis said with a nod when he saw me behind Kieran. No surprise colored his tone or expression, as if I hadn't run away eight years ago and ignored any attempt at contact since.
Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
Few people know me, but I know many people. That's a skill that comes from living in the shadows and gaining knowledge through observation. It sounds bad, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
Today was hard. I almost fell through the door after a long shift at work and instead stumbled to my armchair in the corner of the small living area. My roommate was home--a rare event. I heard her music blasting in the bathroom as she took a shower. I dozed off waiting for her to get out of the bathroom.
A prompt for the summer season.
A snapshot of a life.
A vignette of a sixteen-year-old who babysits his younger siblings over the holidays.
The third part in my series of short shorts about loving but not needing coffee.
A poem about finding a place in the world.