The two-room apartment on the outskirts of the city smelled of old newspapers, leftover coffee, and loneliness.
The kitchen table was chaos: an empty beer bottle, a spoon with jam, the book Human Anatomy opened at page 214 – heart valves.
Tomas sat on the couch, his feet on the coffee table. The T-shirt – gray, with a small hole near the shoulder. Hair – dark brown, short, unruly – one lock falling onto his forehead. Green eyes – empty, as if he were looking through the world. A small scar on his chin – from childhood, when he fell off a bicycle.
His father had laughed then:
"You'll be a surgeon – scars will be your true beauty, son!"
Now – just a scar.
He was 20. A sporty build – not from the gym, but from hard work and living among all kinds of people. Hands – strong, veins visible under the skin.
Girls on the street often tried to talk to him:
– Hey, want some coffee?
– No, – he answered coldly, briefly, pushing them away.
He didn't socialize. Had no friends. His parents died three months ago – a car accident.
He had been one of the top students in the medical faculty. But he quit. Motivation disappeared. Dreams – too.
Why do I exist? Sometimes I think how good it would be to fall asleep and never wake up.
Today he worked in a warehouse – lifting boxes. Came back at 22:47. Tomorrow was a day off.
– Maybe I'll go to a bar, – he muttered to himself. – Get a drink. Silence the thoughts.
He stood up. Long black coat. Jeans – old. He left.