The lit cigarette smoldered quietly in his hand as he gazed wordlessly at his phone. Its screen seemed to reflect his spirit, cracked but functional. Broken but usable.
Nothing is comforting about an empty home to an extrovert. His patio door is breeched ever so slightly, letting the outside in. A small comfort.
Where is his heart if not here? A telltale vibration runs up his forearm, rushes to his brain and back down his spine, settling in the pit of his stomach. The text is heavy, he feels.
His room is more like a prison than a prism. The once tantric and vibrant environment had been reduced to white walls and sparse furniture. Every communication was not only felt but reverberated throughout the 4 walls.
How do you answer when there is nothing to be said? His cigarette has been reduced to mostly ash, the air from outside oxidizing the flame.
He sits up from the edge of his bed, clicking the lock mechanism to reveal a fragmented backlit keyboard and a message.
The screen goes dark after 2 minutes of staring, contemplating a response.
The cigarette dies in the ashtray.
He is alone.