The light of early morning spilled into Julian's living room with a slow, almost apologetic grace—dusty gold lines cutting across the floor, catching on the bottles, the half-eaten food, and the remnants of whatever the night had been.
The silence was thick, not heavy, but settled—like the air after a long storm.
Ilya was the first to stir, his brows furrowed deeply as he pushed himself up from the floor, eyes struggling to adjust. He didn't speak—just blinked rapidly, rubbing his temples as he tried to ground himself. His breath came slow. Uneven.
Beside him, Eric shifted, groaning softly as he rolled onto his back. One hand went straight to his face, as if to block the sun, the other to his chest, fingers curling like he needed to hold himself together. He looked like he'd run a marathon in his sleep.
Anselm sat up abruptly, then immediately regretted it—grimacing, hand flying to the side of his head as if it were splitting in two. He didn't say anything either. Just sat there. Breathing.
Julian was the last to wake, arms sprawled wide like a man who'd surrendered to something larger than himself. He groaned in a half-laugh, half-sigh, then muttered through clenched teeth.
"Jesus... anyone else feel like their soul got kicked in the nuts?"
No one replied.
He sat up, slower now, expression subdued, a rare hint of weariness creeping into his face. He scanned the room—the wreckage, the faces of his friends, the haze still hanging in the air like burnt incense—and then exhaled.
"…I'll make coffee."
No one protested.
Julian shuffled toward the kitchen, moving like someone trying not to jostle something fragile inside them. The others remained seated, quiet, their eyes not quite meeting. A few glances passed—brief, uncertain, but no one spoke.
The machine hissed and gurgled in the background. The smell of bitter roast began to fill the room.
There were no jokes.
No analysis.
No talk of what they'd seen.
No questions asked.
No answers offered.
Just the sound of brewing coffee.
And the silence of four men,
each quietly re-entering the world,
trying to remember who they were before the door had opened.
Julian handed out the mugs in silence, the scent of the coffee sharp and grounding. Steam curled upward, catching the light, filling the room with something warm but not quite comforting.
They each took slow sips. No one said much. Just small sounds—grateful sighs, quiet hums, a few deep breaths. The caffeine didn't fix anything, but it pulled them closer to the surface.
Anselm was the first to set his mug down.
"…I've got to head to the university," he said, voice still rough. "Morning lectures."
Julian nodded without looking up. "Yeah. No worries. I'll get you something to wear."
Eric stretched with a groan, bones cracking. He sipped the last of his coffee and stood up slowly. "I need to get home too," he said, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "I have a canvas waiting. Might finally paint something that scares me."
Julian gave a dry chuckle, but it faded quickly. He moved to his room, returning with a button-up shirt and a pair of dark slacks for Anselm. "Bathroom's down the hall. You know where."
Anselm gave a small nod, quietly walking off. The door clicked behind him.
Eric picked up his bag from beside the couch. "Thanks for… whatever the hell that was," he said with an awkward half-smile. Julian just gave a tired two-fingered salute.
"Later, bro."
Eric nodded, turned, and stepped out into the pale morning. The door shut. The silence grew again.
Minutes later, Anselm emerged dressed sharply but still looking out of place, like his body had returned but his soul hadn't caught up. He checked his phone. Booked a taxi. Sat quietly until it arrived.
The only words exchanged were:
"Thanks for the clothes."
Julian gave a faint smile. "Keep 'em."
The taxi honked softly outside.
Anselm walked out into the daylight, the morning chill brushing his face as he slid into the backseat. He pulled out his phone, opened his e-reader app, and tapped on the last book he'd been reading—"The Stranger" by Camus. He stared at the words for a long while, his eyes scanning a paragraph, rereading it.
Then, slowly, he closed the app.
Locked the phone.
And looked out the window in silence.
The city passed him by—loud, alive, uncaring.
When he arrived at the university, everything looked the same: students rushing, lecturers chatting near the front steps, the janitor dragging a cart behind him with lazy precision. Routine.
He walked into his building, badge tapping on his chest as he moved through familiar halls, up the stairs.
When he entered his office, the overhead light buzzed. The air smelled faintly of dry paper and old dust.
And there it was.
A desk covered in paperwork.
Essays to grade. Memos. Requests for consultations.
Life had waited patiently for him to return.
Anselm sat in his chair.
Stared at the stack for a long time.
Then slowly, wordlessly, he reached for the first page.
And began.
The soft knock on the office door was too polite to be a student.
Then it opened without waiting.
"Morning, Professor Existential Crisis," Tapiwa said, sliding inside with a cheeky grin and a coffee cup she definitely didn't get from the campus cafeteria.
Anselm glanced up from the paper he'd barely been reading. His eyes softened, and the edges of his mouth tugged up in a tired but genuine smile.
"Tapiwa," he said, leaning back. "I see you're still allergic to knocking protocols."
"Please. I'm the only bright thing in this dismal ten-by-ten." She plopped into the chair across from him, sipping from her cup. "Plus, I bring coffee and gossip. Which do you want first?"
Anselm chuckled quietly. "Surprise me."
She leaned in, lowering her voice as if the filing cabinet might snitch. "Okay. So, get this—Samantha and that guy from the psych department? The one with the ponytail and that weird love for Socratic circles?"
Anselm gave a knowing nod. "James."
"Exactly. Well, turns out they've been secretly dating for months. And now she's ghosted him after he tried to read her a sonnet during her office hours."
He blinked. "That's… a layered violation of professionalism."
"Oh it gets worse—he cried. In front of two interns. One of whom made a TikTok about it. Academic tragedy in four acts."
Anselm smiled faintly, the warmth of the moment making its way in. But even Tapiwa could tell it didn't reach his eyes. She narrowed her gaze and tilted her head.
"You good?"
"I'm fine," he replied, too fast.
She didn't let that slide. "You look like someone who just watched a funeral."
He looked away. Quiet for a moment. Then said, "I had a… trip. With the guys. We tried something—mushrooms."
She blinked. "You? You took psychedelics? You don't even take paracetamol without a citation."
Anselm chuckled under his breath. "It was… intense. I saw things. Versions of myself. Regrets I've shelved for years. A tribunal of philosophers judged me in my own mind."
Tapiwa raised an eyebrow. "You hallucinated a philosophy roast battle?"
"More like a dissection," he murmured. "They tore through all my justifications. Every argument I've used to hide behind intellect, behind structure… It's like I was finally forced to hear myself. Without all the armor."
Tapiwa leaned back, watching him with more seriousness now. "And what did you say to yourself?"
He hesitated. "That I've been afraid. Afraid of being wrong. Afraid of being seen as weak. So I built this life around logic and certainty and forgot what it meant to feel anything honestly."
The silence settled thick for a moment.
Then Tapiwa broke it gently. "That's heavy."
"I know," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not even sure why I'm telling you."
She smirked. "Because I'm your favorite and part-time therapist. Obviously."
He gave a tired grin.
Tapiwa leaned forward again, but softer this time. "Look, I don't totally get all that soul-analyzing stuff. But if something inside you cracked open… maybe it's not a bad thing. Maybe you don't need to rebuild it exactly as it was. Just… accept that you saw it. That you felt it. Let it be part of you, instead of something you run from."
Anselm stared at her for a moment. Then nodded. Slowly. As if the words had landed somewhere important.
"Thank you," he said.
She stood up, brushing off imaginary dust. "Anytime. Now go back to grading these poorly constructed metaphors and dead-end thesis statements."
As she reached the door, she paused. Glanced over her shoulder.
"And maybe next time, don't wait for mushrooms to have a feeling."
She winked, then walked out.
Anselm sat still, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. His pen hovered. Then, instead of marking the page, he flipped it over. Stared at the blank side.
He began to write.