It is you who I seek in the shadows
You who my mind wanders to.
It is you who I wait for
In the room numbered 214.
Part One
IN a world that is ever changing, he finds that life— or rather, his life— remains cyclic, routine.
Morning breakfast is rather dull; two slices of toast, tea and maybe some honey, though he does find some enjoyment in the locally-made strawberry jam (which he has stockpiled in the very back of the small kitchen's cupboard). The local newspaper is delivered through the slot in his apartment door, always on time, 8 o'clock on the dot. Always exciting, if taxes and American politics could be called such. Until noon, he spends his time on sudoku and the crossword puzzles in the back pages of the paper, save for Tuesdays and Thursdays, when he has a visitor over instead.
Just before lunch (assorted fruits, and the occasional pastry from the bakery across the street— at least, that's what Steven tells him when he hands them over on his mornings off) a friend stops by. Natalie. She's not much too warm of a woman, but she has a mind faster than bullet trains and a mouth almost equally as impressive.
In the unwritten log situated just right of his pituitary gland, he'd reckon she's about the only person he's spoken to whom he's actually quite alright with. (Steven lost his title when he'd over indulged himself his honey, and quite nearly ruined breakfast with how little he'd left).
They play chess in the three-hour interim between breakfast and lunch (she is quite the strategist, he'd admit his share of losses easily enough), sharing quips and commentary on the world beyond. She's quite the listener and quite the talker, and he finds she's a most splendid company. She's gone soon enough however, always busy, always late. He's quite used to her abrupt leaves, however, so he continues on his day as always.
A novel after lunch (always something new as he's never been one for rereading), a short nap afterwards. When the sun is low and close to setting, he flicks on the television set and critiques the baffling idiocy of American prime time and goes through what Natalie calls "the motions" of killing every last one of his brain cells waiting of the 7 o'clock movie premieres (Fury was fantastic, Gone Girl was thrilling, he'd do well without Divergent, however).
Dinner is a little earlier, at 6 o'clock always. Though Friends has its moments, he finds that the overarching plot is only a little less mind numbing then the rest of what's on currently (also, Ross and Rachel have been on an off in their relationship, and he finds it just isn't so interesting with them separated), and he can ignore it long enough to make a quick salad before Chandler reappears and sets right the wrongs of American sopes (a running theme, he finds).
Unlike the rest of his day, set and ready to the very point, sleep comes as sleep is wont. Sometimes, easily enough, and he's dozing off shortly after 10 within the fluffed confines of his poster bed. Other times... other times not so much, and he finds himself staring out the windows instead, the sound of city traffic dulling out his senses 'til darkness is more alluring than the starless, smog clouded skies. Nights like those, though fear he knows plays no part of it (no, not at all), he thinks of life, ever moving, ever changing, and how so very stagnant his is in comparison.
It is no use, envying what he cannot see, cannot fathom, but between the reach of consciousness and not, his thoughts muddle enough that he allows himself to.
He wonders then, what it is like in the world outside, beyond the four creaking walls of his tiny apartment.
He wonders what it would be like, if his every day could be different.