The morning light spilled through the blinds, slicing the room into golden fragments. A young boy stirred, his alarm clock long silenced. He sighed, 'a few hours more of sleep wouldn't be that bad, alas'
He rose, stripped of his sleep-warmed clothes, and stepped into the shower. The water cascaded down his lean, scarred frame, steam curling like specters around him. He closed his eyes, the rush of water drowning out every other voice in his vicinity.
Dressed in a crisp, dark ensemble, he slung his bag over his shoulder and left for college…
The English classroom buzzed with the chatter of students until the professor silenced them with a raised hand.
"Today," the professor announced smugly, "one of your peers will share her work."
A girl with a cascade of auburn hair stood, clutching a notebook. She hesitated, then began:
**"We are players, bound by strings, A stage of stars, of forgotten kings. Othello's rage, Juliet's despair, Each act a scream to a God who's not there.
We dance, we fall, a futile fight, Shakespeare's verses in Nietzsche's night. Our creator—cruel, detached, obscene, A master who feeds on our silent screams.
And yet… we yearn, though hearts decay, For love, for truth, for hope's dismay. Actors we are, in tragedy's mire, Burning in the cold of a creator's fire."**
The room was silent when she finished, her words held weight. One which everyone comprehended differently and soon here was a burst of applause.
The boy however –seated in the back, showed no reaction. He simply stared ahead, as though the poem had skimmed across the surface of his mind, leaving no ripple.
Soon enough class had ended, he climbed the stairs to the roof, a place he found solace. The city stretched out before him, sprawling and indifferent, a mirror to his own emotions.
He found a good spot and plopped down basking in the sunlight, covered by a shade, he laid there for a couple moments in serene silence before …
"Xavrix."
A soft, melodic voice broke it. He turned slowly, to see a woman standing near the entrance. She was striking—late twenties, with sharp yet gentle features framed by dark hair that swayed in the breeze. Her expression was warm, but her eyes carried an edge of sternness.
"You know this area's off-limits," she said, stepping closer.
Xavrix shrugged, closing his eyes to return to his rest. "I'll leave soon." His voice was low, carrying a detached tone, as if the conversation were a formality he indulged out of politeness.
The woman crossed her arms, sighing softly. "That's not the point, Xavrix. You can't just… keep breaking rules because you feel like it." She paused, watching him. He didn't react, his eyes slam shut.
"Why are you always like this?" she murmured, her voice softer now, tinged with something warmer—almost tender. "You isolate yourself. Push people away. If you're carrying the weight of the world, then share it."
He finally turned to her, his amber eyes cold and unflinching. "What do you expect me to say?"
She exhaled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I don't expect you to say anything. I just…" Her gaze softened further. "I worry about you, Xavrix. Especially when you act like nothing matters, yourself included."
His eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible reaction, but his face remained a mask of indifference. "You shouldn't, its not something you're obligated to."
She frowned, stepping closer, as though trying to bridge the chasm he had built around himself. "You think I can help it?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Not after everything…"
Xavrix's head tilted slightly, his sharp features catching the light as he regarded her with a distant curiosity. "You do know, you shouldn't care so much?"
Her lips parted, hesitation in the pause. Then she spoke his name softly, almost like a prayer. "Because I –i– I don't want to see you… in pain." she finally blurted
"teacher's instinct??" he replied to which she quietly stared at him
His expression didn't change, but the silence between them was electric, filled with a rather nasty tension. Finally, he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"I'll leave," he said simply.
She stepped aside, but her gaze lingered on him as he passed. "Xavrix…"
He paused at the doorway but didn't look back.
"Just don't forget," she said gently. "I'm always here"
The door closed behind him, and she remained there, the wind tugging at her hair as her expression shifted—warm, but tinged with sorrow.
_____________
The street was quiet as Xavrix walked home, the glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. As he turned a corner, a faint meow stopped him in his tracks.
His amber eyes scanned the alleyway until he spotted it—a scrawny, disheveled cat perched on a pile of crates. Its fur was matted, and it shivered as it stared at him, wide-eyed and desperate.
"Figures," Xavrix muttered, his tone flat. "You'd survive longer out here than most people." He paused, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face. "But you're still better off avoiding everyone"
The cat blinked at him, as if in response. Xavrix sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked away.
Moments later. The cat was now nestled in a makeshift shelter of cardboard and fabric scraps. A tin of tuna lay open beside it, the scent drawing the feline closer. Xavrix stood at the alley's edge, watching silently before turning away once more.
When he arrived home, the apartment greeted him with its usual stillness. Xavrix tossed his bag onto a chair, changed into a plain tank top and shorts, and tied his hair back with practiced ease.
The room transformed into his training ground. He moved through the drills with mechanical precision, fists striking the air with sharp, deliberate force. Each kick, each block was flawless, honed by years of discipline. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn't pause.
The night stretched on, his only company the rhythmic sound of his movements. For Xavrix, this was solace—a ritual that stripped away the weight of the day, leaving only clarity.
When he finally stopped, the moonlight had shifted. He exhaled, calm and controlled, ready for the next day.