In the late hour of the afternoon, when the light grows pale as if the day itself is starting to forget its own existence, that person stands in a corner no one else occupies. He carries no name and no clear past—born from emptiness and returning to it. His features feel weightless, his presence nearly silent, yet inside him exists a chaotic world, trembling as if the entire universe is stuck in his chest. Time passes slowly for him, painfully slow, as though each minute tiptoes past so it won’t disturb him…but everything disturbs him anyway. Even the quiet of the late afternoon feels heavy on his shoulders, reminding him of all the things he doesn’t know how to handle. He sits, then rises, then sits again, as if searching for a way out of a closed circle—one with no door at all. His thoughts multiply without reason. Some frighten him, some confuse him, and some are so unreal that they make him doubt his own mind. He imagines things that never happen and speaks to shadows no one else can hear. He tries to return to reality, only to find that reality has drifted far away, shrinking before him just as the light shrinks at this time of day. Despite their disorder, he treats his thoughts with strange caution, as if they are lost children he is trying to guide home. He soothes one voice, tells another it isn’t real, and begs a third not to grow too large lest it swallow him whole. But he knows he loses this battle every evening, and his mind becomes a dim room where shapes overlap until nothing makes sense. His emptiness isn’t ordinary. It’s an emptiness that makes noise, an emptiness that breathes, an emptiness that stands in front of him like a wall he cannot climb. He tries to fill it with anything—a fading memory, a passing desire, even a comforting illusion. But nothing stays. Everything evaporates quickly, the way the sun’s warmth disappears in its final moments. His loneliness doesn’t come from the absence of people, but from the absence of feeling itself. He reaches toward things he cannot touch, looks at places he cannot see, and listens to a silence that contains nothing but the broken voice inside him. Sometimes he feels the world is split in two: one half where everyone else lives…and a darker half where he lives alone. As the last minutes of afternoon slip away, and the light turns into a faint golden hue, he realizes that this hour—this slow, quiet fading—is just like him. Both disappear slowly, and no one notices either one. He stays seated, watching his shadow stretch across the ground as if it’s trying to escape him but fails every time. He says nothing and does nothing, yet inside he wages an invisible war—not with the world, but with himself. A war he leaves every day heavier, more alone, and just as empty as before…perhaps even more. #fyppppppppppppppppppppppp #fyp #fy #f #موسيقار - @allroadsleadtosuicide