The man sat hunched over his computer, eyes itching under the strain of artificial light. The spiderweb of creases on his tiered face, only accentuated by the soft glow of his monitor.
Piles of half memorised notes, mugs of stale coffee and morsels of scrap food surround the man, giving the impression of a man consumed by work of the utmost importance.
Yet importance is a subject of perspective and subjection. With a laden sigh the man closes his laptop, his face submerging into darkness for what would be the first time in hours.
The man rises from his chair, cracking his back, a habit more than anything, and saunters off into the dark of his apartment.
The man climbs into bed, its linen old and familiar, but a foreign smell and temperature.
His blankets are cold, and while recently washed, the comforting smell of a time, a person lingers in its used fibres, like a fond memory fading with time.
The man turns to his night shade, his eyes trained to avoid the bed side photograph he knows he should have long packed away.
With a click, the night engulfs the room, save for the slivers of silver street light that seep between the cracks of the curtain.
The man closes his eyes, and demands to be lost in the suddenness of sleep, fearing the silence, and the thoughts that creep at the edges of his mind.
To indulge those thoughts, or even acknowledge their presence can draw the night out like the length of a blade. The man fights an internal war, but yet his final waking thoughts are of her.
She might have left him, but she never really left him.