He only focused on freelancing, web development, four hours now, hunched over the battered laptop that had become his lifeline. The chair beneath him was stiff, its cushion long since flattened, the wooden back digging into his spine. Still, he managed to stick with it, shifting now and then, stretching his legs beneath the table, but never truly comfortable. The room was alive with the shrill, unpredictable laughter of Aliya and Amber, his nieces, who shrieked and giggled as they watched cartoons on the old TV in the corner. Their voices rose and fell like waves, sometimes piercing, sometimes fading into the background hum of the house. Sean tried to seem unbothered, his eyes glued to the screen, fingers tapping out lines of code, but every so often, a particularly loud squeal made his shoulders tense.
Erika, his sister, moved quietly around the kitchen, her presence a gentle contrast to the chaos of the children. Sometimes, as she passed by, her eyes would linger on him. Their gazes met occasionally—brief, silent exchanges heavy with unspoken words. Each time, Sean broke away first, returning to his work with renewed focus, as if the screen could shield him from the world. He wanted no word from her, no instruction, no gentle prodding. He just wanted to be left alone, to exist in the small, controlled universe he'd built for himself. He wasn't a bad uncle—he'd helped with breakfast, tied shoelaces, even found the missing remote—but he wasn't warm, either. He was simply present, a quiet shadow in the corner of their lives.
"You can stay here overnight," Erika said softly, her voice carrying over the cartoon soundtrack. "Peter's been asking about how you're doing. He'll be back earlier today."
Sean didn't look away from his laptop. He just nodded, the movement barely perceptible. Freelancing had become his first priority, a tough decision he'd made after two years of divorce and disappointment. He'd retreated from people, from the messiness of relationships, from the risk of being hurt again. He didn't dare look at women, didn't trust himself to talk to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. Maybe he tried a little, here at Erika's house, but even then, he kept his words measured, his emotions locked away. He wasn't cold, not exactly. He'd just learned to carry pain like a second skin, to let it settle into his bones until it felt almost comforting. He loved the solitude, the quiet ache of being alone.
Erika moved closer, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite him. The table between them was cluttered with crayons, half-finished coloring books, and a mug of cold coffee. She leaned forward, her eyes searching his face. "You'd better move from the outskirts," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "It's lonelier there."
Her eyes were full of love and pity, a complicated mix that made Sean's chest tighten. He knew she worried about him, about the way he'd withdrawn, about the emptiness she saw in his eyes. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her he was fine, but the words caught in his throat. He had forgotten how to love, how to let people in, how to trust. The world felt distant, muffled, as if he were watching life through a pane of glass. He believed nobody, not even himself.
Outside, the evening light slanted through the window, painting golden stripes across the floor. The air was thick with the scent of toast and spilled juice, the sound of laughter and cartoons, the quiet, persistent hum of a family trying to hold itself together. Sean sat in the middle of it all, a silent observer, tethered to his laptop, to his pain.
A faint, bitter smile crept across Sean's lips, tugging his cheeks back and deepening the lines that sorrow had carved there. "Pain is sweeter than the so-called love," he murmured, his voice low and rough, as if the words themselves were edged with glass. "There's no betrayal, no longing, no fear of losing." The smile lingered, but it was a mask—thin, fragile, and trembling at the edges.
He turned his eyes to Erika, their blue-gray depths shadowed and distant. "Erika, I've left my past behind. I want nobody." He swallowed hard, the word catching in his throat. "Nobody." For a moment, the room was silent except for the distant, muffled laughter of the children. Erika saw the pain flicker in his eyes, saw how he tried to bury it beneath the pretense of a smile. She said nothing, her lips pressed together, her hands twisting in her lap. Sean turned back to his laptop, but the screen blurred before him, the code dissolving into meaningless symbols.
His mind was a storm. He couldn't focus. The memories surged up, unbidden and relentless. Lune—her name alone was enough to make his chest ache. She was married now, living a new life, raising the daughter they'd once dreamed of together, but with another man. Sean told himself she never cared, that she'd always wanted more than he could give. He tried to believe she was a gold digger, someone who'd tolerated him until she couldn't anymore. But the truth was messier, more painful. He'd loved her, given her everything he had, and it hadn't been enough.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, startling Erika. He grabbed his earpods and slipped out the door without a word. The air outside was cool and sharp, tinged with the scent of rain and distant earth. He walked quickly, his footsteps echoing on the cracked pavement, his mind racing. In the outskirts, he'd found solace in evening walks, letting the hush of nature soothe him. But tonight, the city pressed in—voices drifting from open windows, the rumble of cars, the flicker of streetlights. Every sound grated against his nerves. Erika had unknowingly unearthed the grief he'd buried, and now it threatened to swallow him whole.
His thoughts spiraled back to that night, years ago, when everything changed. Lune had packed in silence, her movements mechanical, her face turned away. She cradled their baby in her arms, her eyes fixed on the door. Sean had watched, numb and helpless, as she entered a cab and disappeared into the night. It had seemed sudden, but now he realized the signs had been there—her late nights, her silence, the way she'd withdrawn after the birth. He hadn't understood post-pregnancy depression, hadn't known how to reach her. He'd told himself it would pass, that she'd come back to him in time. But she hadn't. She'd left, taking their child and his heart with her, leaving only questions and silence in her wake.
He remembered asking her why, remembered the way she refused to meet his eyes, how she moved around him like he was invisible. She'd left him with nothing but the echo of her absence, and the knowledge that she'd chosen someone else—James, as he learned later. The divorce papers arrived quietly, without drama or explanation. It was as if he'd been erased from her life, as if he'd never mattered at all.
He smiled again, a hollow, twisted thing, meant only to keep the pain at bay. The music in his ears was no comfort; it only made the ache sharper, more defined.
He wandered to the bus stop, the city lights blurring in his vision. He couldn't bring himself to return to Erika's warm, bustling home. Instead, he boarded a bus heading toward the outskirts, toward the solitude he'd chosen. The ride was silent, the bus nearly empty, the world outside slipping past in streaks of neon and shadow. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, watching the city fall away, replaced by fields and scattered houses.
He stepped off the bus and walked the familiar path to his home—a squat, lonely structure at the edge of nowhere. The houses here were few and far between, their windows glowing softly in the night, separated by stretches of darkness and silence. His own house stood apart, its porch light burned out, the yard overgrown and wild. It looked abandoned, forgotten by time.
Each step toward the door felt like a descent into peace, a surrender to the quiet that waited for him. He unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. The room greeted him with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant howl of wind. Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver patterns on the worn wooden floor.
He looked around—the rusty walls, the battered furniture, the bed almost centered in the room, draped in a tangle of fluffy sheets and threadbare blankets. He stripped off his shirt and shoes, letting them fall where they landed, and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress sagged beneath him, the sheets cool and rough against his skin.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The moonlight traced the scars on his hands, the lines on his face. In this silence, he could almost believe he was safe, untouched by the world outside. Here, pain was a companion—familiar, predictable, and strangely comforting. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle over him, and breathed in the peace he'd carved out of loneliness.