Inhale
It wasn't him
Exhale
Of course, it wasn't.
Slow but steady steps echo through the painted floors. He tries to focus. Focus on the steps. To just keep going. Right. Left. The halls are too big and too long. He never noticed how wide they were. And yet they overwhelm him. Crush him. They used to be colorful, he remembers. But now they turned grey.
Of course, it wasn't him.
Why would he suddenly care about you?
He almost reaches the door as focusing on the heavy, painfully loud steps becomes too hard. His vision blurs.
He never cared about you.
He always used to admire the wonderful paintings around him. They were expressive and impressive. And especially wise. Magnificent paintings that capture so much and express it in yet so little. And they always reassured him. But now he can't stop hearing his laughs. He laughs about his stupidity. He was stupid to think he actually cared about him. Even if it was just for a few seconds. Even if it was just for a heartbeat. He is ashamed of his stupidity, his naivety. How could he be so blind? So unbelievably blind. So pathetically stupid.
