With one hand on the key, preparing to unlock the door, yet fearful of what awaited him beyond it, his fingers ached from gripping the lock too tightly and carelessly. He exerted so much force that he could have torn the door frame apart. His head throbbed due to the internal conflict, a true destructive war with bombs and missiles. Would his doubt materialize? Would it be a certainty?

In his heart, he wished he was wrong or trapped in a nightmare like the ones he had as a child. He vehemently claimed it was all a grand and horrendous illusion brought on by the alcohol coursing through his veins. He wasn't sure if he was in the real world or some macabre tale. By this point, his vision turned gray, just like himself, his color faded along with his courage. His old fears all came rushing back at once, like a punch, almost making him fall. His wobbly legs did little to help maintain his balance; he could hardly feel them.

His inner demons whispered in his ears, claiming to know the answer and offering a proposition that any oppressed person would surely accept without questioning the value of life: his soul in exchange for his love. A lascivious and disturbing desperation gnawed at him, spreading through every fiber of his being, called fear. With his minimal strength, he tried to gather the little hope he had left, attempting to lock away his thoughts and finally focus on opening the door. He took a deep breath and bit his middle finger of the free hand deeply until he felt the blood dripping between his teeth. Then, after turning the doorknob once more and opening the door, there lay the man who was the reason for his smiles, lying on the bed where they had joined and become one so many times. The bed was covered with a white comforter with flower details that he loved so much, now stained with blood. And next to this sea, the man he loved and who said "I love you" to him every day. Now, life would no longer have beauty; he saw only his ugliness as he faced death. Amid tears, he gave a final kiss to his beloved's forehead and, using the same knife the other had used, slit his throat, going to find his only reason to be happy, wherever it may be, for without love, there is no meaning in continuing.