~ "Shit."

The young man awkwardly shuffled through his pocket, straining to find his apartment key.

His patience had grown noticeably thinner within the last few months. Small things seemed to grind on his soul, making his dulled eyes sink deeper into his hollowing sockets. The days drew out. The early hours of the morning taunted him as sleep continuously failed him every night.

His love of art became a distanced and shelved echo in the back of his mind. Day after day, he'd drag himself into his cold and lonesome apartment, drink a glass of whiskey and drown in his emptiness. Most days he sat on the cold tile of his kitchen floor and stared at the cracked grout. When did his existence become so pointless?

He broke off most relation to the outside world. Three missed calls turned to ten. Then 15. 30. Full message capacity.

His parents tried in vain to reach out to him, but he couldn't take their love or concern. He wanted it… But he couldn't bring himself to accept it. The last thing he wanted to do was weigh down the two people he loved most in the world. He knew he would hurt them either by ignoring or not, but he figured this way was best.

His friends drifted away. They went on to show at galleries, get high, get drunk – live. He didn't want to burden them either, so he let them go without a second glance.

He used to be prompt upon his arrival to work. He was nothing short of enthusiastic when he taught his classes, but the new school year was different.

He was lucky if he dragged himself out of his bed in time to teach his first session. He opted to give his students an open study, rather than going through the pains of discussing Andy Warhol and Postmodernism.

What had happened to him?

He let out a stiff huff and rested his forehead against his doorframe.

The door key was on his nightstand. He could feel it mocking him where it lay – far from him.

Reluctantly, he blindly foraged through his messenger bag for a paper clip.

An empty pill bottle, his notebook, earphones, phone, wallet…

He felt a slick piece of paper - glossy on one side and matte on the other. He clamped it between his pointer and middle finger, bringing it into view.

It was a mildly crumpled photo strip, the ones that come from the crappy photo booths at amusement parks. The only odd thing was…he was alone. It was as though someone else was next to him, but vanished. He'd noticed this in many of his other photos. He was posing with someone, but no one was there…

Was he really that delusional?

He'd lost his mind, he was sure of it.

He didn't bother bringing it up to anyone else. The last thing he wanted was to end up in a psyche ward, especially with his current fragile state of mind.

He stuffed the slip of paper back into his bag and began to untwist the paper clip.

With a few jiggles of the lock, he was in. Good to know his apartment could be easily infiltrated, considering the $400 rent he paid every month.

He threw his satchel onto the sofa and stumbled into the kitchen.

The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and Chinese takeout boxes. The stench was probably horrendous, but he couldn't smell anything. He figured he'd grown accustomed to the rancid stink.

He dug through the messy pile, stroking his 5 o'clock shadow with a groan. Grooming became one of his last priorities of late. His hair had grown so unruly, he had no choice but to opt for a man bun – the satanic fad practiced by men these days.

After sifting through the clutter, he managed to pick out a grimy mug. He poured out the contents (coffee grounds and some ramen noodles) and gave it a quick rinse, careful not to knock over the pile of crud. He shook the kettle sitting on his stove top and listened half-heartedly. He could hear the dim swish of some stale water at the very bottom. He gave a small shrug and set it back on the stove, turned it on, and laid his upper body over the counter.

He felt his fingertip lightly brush against a leather binding. He slowly lifted his eyes and saw his dusty sketchbook, crushed beneath a stack of bills, books, and miscellaneous papers.

He grabbed the edge and pulled, not caring that the rest fell over onto his floor. The cover felt almost foreign. It had been so long since he'd even felt the urge to draw or create.

He flipped through the pages, aimlessly glancing over old drawings and paintings.

He stopped abruptly and turned back 3 pages.

A girl.

An unfinished portrait of a girl.

He stared intently at the drawing and scratched his head.

Who was this girl and why was she in his sketchbook?

The loud whine of the teapot screamed into his consciousness.

He gently set the book back down, tapping his fingers on the table in thought before dragging himself to the stove. He turned the flame off and stared as the steam rose into the fluorescent light bulbs above him.

She looked so familiar…

Now too occupied with his thoughts, he lost his interest in tea entirely.

In the picture, she was smiling. If he did know her… He could almost swear the last time he'd seen this… stranger… she looked mournful. What was he thinking? He didn't know this person. She didn't exist.

He opened the drawer in front of him and fumbled through the contents, finding a crinkled bag of earl grey. He dropped it in his crumby mug and poured the scorching water over it.

He walked over to his table, towing his tea and sketchbook along.

He sat down and put the open book straight in front of him, pressing the steaming cup to his lips.

"But, I don't know her," He whispered to himself.

"Do I?"

He sat there for what seemed like hours, filing through every memory he possibly could recall. He couldn't seem to find any evidence that this mystery woman was in fact, a real person he'd known.

"Untitled"

The word came subconsciously from his mouth. He widened his eyes dubiously, clearly surprised at his own insanity.

"'Untitled?' What does that even mean?"

He straightened his self and sauntered to his bedroom, falling face first onto his unmade bed.

"Untitled," he repeated.

Hello there. I know I said I finished this story, but boredom and a rekindling of my love for Ib has made me think otherwise... Who knows what will happen? I don't even know. My mind needs to do something productive and I need a break from reality. Here's to whatever the hell I'm going to write for this story.