Daniel hated books with flowery ends.

Improbable events leading to wonderful, emotions-filled ends. Those kinds of story where the main girl falls in love with the popular guy and they obviously become a couple. They’d trip and kiss unintentionally. Live together by accident. She’s dumb but she’s the only one who can see the real him. Maybe a kiss under the rain, a ride on his bicycle while she hugs him from behind. He’d lend her his coat when it gets cold and say the cutest of things. He seemed cold but he's burning inside. He's always going to be there for her, the epilogue will confirm that they got married, maybe they’re even raising a family.

Happily.

Ever.

After.

But these stories never happen in real life. Love breaks, dreams shatter. Consistency isn't most people strong point. We say forever without real conception of the word. We believe in infinite things when our minds can't even begin to grab the concept of infinity.

The problem with a romance novel isn't even the book itself. He used to enjoy reading them more that he will ever admit. But they’re as wonderful as they're terrible; they let him dream for the time it takes to read it before dumping him back right into reality. Where divorces rates are high and his 23 years-old lips never had been kissed. Where a guy that had given up on the simplest act of making friends, let alone finding someone to love, lived alone on the top floor of some university's residence.

His roommate never came in the beginning of semester and anyways people would never stick around. He thought it was just his luck, that he'd be alone in this depressing room until graduation. He was on a list to get a new roomie, but there probably wouldn't be any new students until the following Fall semester. Who would be dumb enough to join a new school a week after classes began on a Winter semester?

The empty neatly made bed to his left was laughing at him like it did every other day. He turned to his other side not to see it anymore, not to see his loneliness. So that all he’d face would be the dull discolored yellow wall of his room. So that his back would be turned to his pain. He pulled his bed sheets over his head, but somehow, he still saw the relentless emptiness. The monsters lurking in the dimly lit room would still try and get to him even in the safety of his bedsheets. He put his headphones on and forcefully made silence shut up.

His only refugee was that silly book club. There he'd at least get to speak to a few people. Laugh internally at the girl that always brought a new romance novel, smile at the few couples that still gave him hope, against his will, of finding someone of his own. Those disgustingly cute couples surrounding him that would make his face wince and his heart squeeze tightly. He thought of stopping to go there, but he never did.

And he didn't want to hope. He didn't want to dream and get his dreams crushed like it always happens. He didn’t want a new roommate, he didn’t want to get close to anyone. Because deep down, he knew.

Everyone will always leave.