With the Backstreet Boys blaring in the background, he sat there collecting his tears on an empty phone screen — as he mumbled himself asleep with the sun digging deeper into the evening, a thought was stuck there — did people really want him? Or they just humoured him, humoured him because they hadn’t used him yet, and were waiting to use him and discard him — show him where he belonged: down in the dumps crawling with the vermins

As the moon started to peek from behind the concrete — he wiped his screen, gulped his coffee (which had become cold over the last hour) pushed the thoughts aside (One could try)

He sat down and started to romanticise his sadness, like it was an old love interest.

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