The eyes are getting hotter. I can feel it. Not here. Not now. Not here. I’m just about keeping it in.
So many people all around. Packed into this train, as it speeds off underneath the great city. And what makes it so? I came here for a cure, after all; and what do I have now?
All around me people are reading the Evening Standard and today’s horrible headline. Oh, to write that headline. To be someone.
Still hotter. And I can feel my face stuck in a miserable contortion such as that anyone in this carriage who may otherwise find me attractive now won’t give me a second glance. I can’t blame them. I can’t help it: I can’t smile.
It travels to the pit of my stomach: I learnt not to drink whisky years ago; so I know it’s not that. It’s all of this. It’s everything.
All of these figures that walk past me that wouldn’t give me the time of day – or would they. They don’t need to: they’re already in love, happy, content. They’re not me.
They’re not lonely.
So what’s wrong with me? Is there really no one that wants to get to know me; know me on a personal, moderately romantic level? No one that would be happy for me to put my arm around their waist, to kiss their neck, hold their hand, or to even – somewhere down the line – delicately tell them into their fair ear that I love them.
I am going to die alone
and I’m about done with that conclusion.