bellelettre
He was the kind of person who noticed everything. Except himself.
Always moving. Always asking. Always looking at something, someone, somewhere else. Curiosity wasn't just a trait; it was how he existed. As if standing still, even for a moment, would let everything he avoided finally catch up to him.
He wandered through people the way others wandered through places-observing, learning, remembering. He knew how someone's voice changed when they were tired, how silence meant more than words, how small things revealed bigger truths.
But when it came to himself, there was nothing.
Or at least, nothing he was willing to face.
He filled every quiet moment with questions that weren't his to answer. Followed stories that weren't his to carry. Stayed just close enough to understand others, but never close enough to be understood.
Because maybe it was easier that way.
Easier to figure out the world than to figure out why he kept running from something he couldn't even name.
And yet, despite all that movement, all that noise, there was a stillness in him he refused to acknowledge.
The kind that only appeared when there was no one left to observe.
The kind that asked questions he could never outrun.
So if he spent his whole life searching for answers in everyone else, what would happen when he finally had to face his own?