I must have dozed off at the desk, my head resting on the cool surface and the notepad still lying open before me. When I woke, the faint imprint of its spiral rings marked my skin. I rubbed my face, trying to shake the haze of sleep.
The sounds of Christmas cheer filtered through the walls—playlists of carols blaring, laughter bubbling, voices blending in a harmony of celebration. It wasn't subtle. The day had rolled into Christmas Eve, and the building had come alive with the joy of the season.
Through the thin walls of my apartment, I could hear snippets of conversations—families exchanging jokes, friends toasting with glasses that clinked faintly, lovers murmuring in hushed tones. It was a symphony of togetherness, warm and loud in its own imperfect way.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the glowing Japanese lantern Sasha had given me. Its soft, warm light was almost drowned out by the pale morning sun creeping through the curtains. One sharp ray cut through the dust-filled air, landing squarely on my clenched fist resting on the desk. The contrast between the lantern's artificial warmth and the sun's natural glow felt oddly poetic, as if the two were vying for dominance in this quiet moment.
Outside, the world hummed with life—laughter, music, and the unmistakable joy of Christmas Eve spilling into the streets. Yet here, in my little corner of solitude, the air felt heavy, stagnant. The weight of unanswered questions and half-formed theories loomed larger than the cheer outside.
I opened my hand, letting the sunlight touch my palm, its warmth unfamiliar but grounding. It was a reminder that the world moved on, regardless of what I carried within. But for now, it was just me, the glow of Sasha's lantern, and the quiet hum of my restless thoughts.
I stood abruptly, crossing the room to grab the broom from its usual corner. Its worn bristles whispered against the floor as I worked, sweeping together forgotten crumbs and stray bits of paper. A cloud of dust rose when I hit the baseboard, catching the sunlight and glittering momentarily before settling.
The apartment slowly began to feel less like a battleground. Each stroke of the broom lightened the weight pressing on my chest, as though I was sweeping away more than just the dirt.
I had always managed to do the dishes after every meal, at least—though it was a habit that stood in stark contrast to the rest of my deranged personality. It was one small, orderly act amidst the chaos I often thrived in. A routine, like a small island of control in a sea of uncertainty.
The drawer was slightly ajar, papers peeking out, their edges crinkled. I pulled them out and glanced over most of them—rent bills, water bills, electricity bills. Mundane, routine things that I always made sure to clear, just another way I kept a semblance of order in my life. Something about knowing I could at least manage the basics gave me a false sense of stability.
My apartment was modest, nothing extravagant. Two medium-sized rooms. The living room had a simple wooden center table and a couch, enough for lounging, enough to remind me that it served its purpose. My personal room, the second, was where I truly retreated. A queen-sized bed, a cupboard, and an attached bathroom—basic, functional. It had a rustic touch to it, a warmth that came from its simplicity, like a piece of me had become embedded in the walls.
There was also a small kitchen, tucked away in the corner of the apartment. It wasn't much—just enough to prepare meals when the need arose. A tiny counter, a stove, a sink. Everything was within arm's reach, practical and unpretentious. It wasn't the kind of space where I would host dinner parties, but it served me just fine. I kept it tidy, the clean dishes stacked neatly, the cabinets sparse but well-organized.
The living room also had a terrace, my little sanctuary for coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional breakfast. A quiet place to retreat, away from the hum of the world. I often found myself staring out there, lost in thought, feeling the weight of the days pressing on my chest while the world below went on, oblivious to the unrest brewing within me.
This apartment was affordable, designed for a working-class life, just like mine. I could've easily chosen a better place, maybe something a little more lavish. But this one—the area, the space—fit me perfectly. No pretenses. No judgment. People kept to themselves, focused on their own lives. It was a quiet anonymity I had come to appreciate. It suited me like a glove. In this place, I was just another face, a nameless tenant among many. And that was exactly how I liked it.
I was immersed in cleaning the rooms when something caught my eye—the old violin, resting forgotten in the abandoned part of the living room. Dust had settled on its smooth surface, but it still held a certain elegance, as though time hadn't completely stolen its grace.
I picked it up, the familiar weight in my hands bringing a rush of memories. It had been years since I last played, but the sound of its strings echoed in my mind. I remembered the days when I was a different person—a man who once serenaded a woman, hoping to win her love. She was married to another man by the time I'd strummed my last note for her, but in those moments, I had been her Romeo.
I ran my fingers lightly over the strings, the faintest hum of nostalgia filling the space between my thoughts. Those were the days of grand gestures, of believing that love could conquer anything. Now, it was just me and this relic of a time long passed. I set it back down, its presence lingering in the room, just another chapter of a life I had left behind.
I remembered the ancient days, where I was just a simple man swayed by a beautiful girl. If I look her superficially, I might not find her attractive now. But she was my kind of beauty - my kind of love.
A young blood had no boundaries. For him, the world seemed small, she was like a moon. A sole beauty of my soul. She was not breathtaking beautiful. She didn't need to be, even if so, she was a muse, a note to my thousands melody. A beauty within the soul.
I played some notes of violin in her remembrance. I cried feeling a cloud of nostalgia.
I remembered the days, she was mine - mine in my embrace. I was a delinquent - just another jobless Romeo for her.
Life was cruel, but so was I. A deliquent. I couldn't give her anything but promises, and promises are fragile things—broken far too easily by the weight of reality. She waited for me, I know she did, with all the patience of a heart in love. But love doesn't pay debts, doesn't shelter from storms, and doesn't stop the ticking of time.
I can still see her face, even now, when I close my eyes. The way her lips would curl into a smile, even when tears threatened to spill. The way her hands trembled when she tried to hold mine, knowing we were running out of time. I held her close, promising the world, when I could barely hold myself together.
Years later, here I am, playing the violin in a small, dimly lit room. The sound echoes like the fragments of my memories. The strings weep with me as if they, too, feel the loss of something once so pure, so bright.
Did she find happiness? Did she find love? Or does she sit somewhere now, like me, trapped in a web of "what-ifs" and "could-have-beens"?
If only I had been braver, smarter, or maybe just luckier. Perhaps, in another life, I'd have given her more than just broken dreams. In this one, all I have left is the melody of her memory.
As I rummaged through the depths of the cupboard, my eyes fell upon an old drawer. Inside were countless yellowed sheets, filled with my unspoken words to her.
Never sent them. Too afraid to sent them.
Wrote thousands. Burned hundreds.
Here, I was her pathetic lover. Wanting to be loved again which was now a distant thought.
Forever your Romeo, Juliet.