Although there were good days, there were bad days.

There were days when he was happy and felt at the top, as the main character in his own life. Then there were the days when he would rather not exist, not be, and not live. He feels so terribly lonely even when he is not alone. He misses someone who would understand, his other half. He misses someone who would hug and love him.

He often sat by the window and watched the rain. Lonely drops crawling across the window. Is that the meaning of their lives? Fall. To fall like an angel without wings, without a halo, and without hope. They only exist so they can die. Does he himself exist only to live and eventually die? Just? Like it was nothing?

He wants to hug so much and someone who can prove to him that he is not alone. He is not alone. He's just missing something. One small, though quite substantial, piece, a small puclík. The key to his happiness.

His soul was torn in two at birth and now threatens to never be whole again. However, he is more worried about his second part, about the other half of his mandarin. What if he's not interested in an ordinary, not interesting boy from ordinary high school? He has nothing to offer. He would rather be alone than with him.

He will never be whole. The pain, the emptiness.

He wants it to end. He wants to go to bed and sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty. Sleep, feel nothing, just a beautiful dream.

Tears rolled down his cheeks until they finally wet his shirt.

He thinks too much about something that hurts unnecessarily. He thinks a lot about his life. He is very worried about the future. What if everything is okay? Those crying nights would be completely useless. Those awake nights completely meaningless.

He lay down on the bed, hugged the pillow to feel the warmth, and closed his red eyes from crying.

The silence in the house deafened him. Why is it so loud? He feels like he's tearing his eardrums. He hears blood flowing to him, the beating of his heart. His thoughts scream. Screams for help.

He just wants to sleep. One single night without feeling anything. Without his own mind trying to kill him. Does he want so much?

He's writing a test tomorrow. He couldn't even open the notebook and look at the notes. He is tired. The stereotype kills and sucks him.

It struck midnight, his breath settling, and his head was empty.