He woke up already tired.
Not tired like sleep-deprived.Not tired like sore limbs or heavy eyes.
Tired like something had been carved out of him in the night.
The room was familiar in the way that memories aren't—faint, weightless, hollow around the edges. The desk was where it always was. The walls still pale and windowless.
But it felt wrong today.
Off.
He sat up slowly, rubbed his face, and exhaled.
His chest felt full—but not with breath.
Something else.
He didn't speak. Didn't even try to stand. Just let the weight press into him.
He was sad.
Deeply, awfully sad.
But not in the way that made sense.
There was no story to attach it to. No image, no reason, no sharp moment of grief to anchor the ache. It just sat there, heavy and nameless, like a scream that had never been given permission to form.
He stood eventually. Walked to the desk. Opened a drawer.
Nothing.
He didn't expect anything. He didn't know what he was even hoping to find.
The walls breathed faintly, as they always did.
He hated that he knew that.Hated that he knew the pattern.Hated that he didn't know why it hurt today more than the others.
He walked to the wall where the seam sometimes appeared. Today it wasn't there.
Fine.
He sat again.
His hands clenched once, then relaxed.
He wanted to cry, but the tears didn't come.
His body remembered sadness.But not the story behind it.
He whispered something under his breath. A name? A plea?
He didn't know.
And that made it worse.