Just a head's up, this chapter contains strong themes of depression and questioning of self worth, so you may want to turn away.
Francis stared down at his quiche and lentils as Gilbert blabbered on. (Something about a virus on his company's computer software) He stuck a fork into the quiche and bit into it. It lost a bit of the flavour from the previous day, though he could still taste a tinge of refrigerator and the tomato's zing.
"So yeah!" Gilbert slammed his fork down onto the table, jolting Francis awake. Gilbert rubbed his temples. "Ugh… Jesus fuck."
"Oh, and my the way how was your day?" He added in while he took a bite out of his quiche. "Any luck at finding another job or…"
Francis waved the fork in a gentle dismissal and put on a smile. "Haven't really been searching lately. I've been busking as a hobby for a while now."
"Ah. Cool." Gilbert was still clearly thinking about the virus, sure, but the dismissive tone still stung.
"Hey Gil? I know that..." and then Antonio began to talk words of encouragement with Gilbert.
Francis fiddled his meal around with his fork. He had tried to spend the afternoon writing music pieces, but gave up. He kept on messing up the technicals- the key of the piece, the bars, and especially the quavers- as well as the fact that it took too long, anyway. It was a wonder how there are people who could remember how to properly do all these yet still create masterpieces like nothing.
Meanwhile, he could barely even transcribe melodies. Such a shame. And he had spent so much on music theory back at uni as well.
By then, he had noticed that Antonio started to talk to Gilbert. Gilbert seemed to be in a better mood already.
"Ah, yeah, that's actually a pretty good point. Thanks!"
"You're welcome! Anyway," Somehow, the rest of Antonio's words seem to blur up after that.
Somehow, a sinking feeling reawakened within his chest while he saw Antonio and Gilbert chat. He stood up.
"I'm just gonna go out for a bit." Antonio glanced towards Francis, a concerned expression appearing onto his face.
"Now? But it's so late!"
"I'll be back soon."
He grabbed the keys, his coat, and went out.
The cold London air blew as his breath turned to smoke in the cold night.
Francis wandered around the park as the sound of the city played in the background. Everything was so different in the park at night.
There would've been so many sounds in the day. In the night, it was so quiet that the wind seemed loud. Even with the blowing wind, the empty rustling of the leaves and litter, and the distant car honks which filled the silence, without the sound of people, it was just… empty.
The night dyed everything in the park into a stale slate grey, where the city lights couldn't reach. The ruby and amber shades of the trees, the sky unlit of stars. Even the small circles of light around the lamp posts just dyed things an almost bleached white.
He sat onto a bench lit up by a lamp post, and listened to the empty rustling of the leaves.
Walks usually cleared his head. The cold air chilled his lungs as he took a deep breath in, and turned his breath into smoke in the lamp's light.
He had taken more walks in the park, in hope of that it would clear a solid weight that lied in his chest. And for a split second, it disappeared.
Who was this? He wouldn't take long walks in the park at night. He wasn't the type who embraced solitude. So why? Why was he doing this?
He hated it.
Everything he loved was tainted with grey when he was like that. It was this weight that knotted deep in his gut, this vacuum of a despair. It ate everything around him, like a black hole. Even the sound of the leaves crackling under his boots were muted.
Was he useless?
He wasn't a creator, but instead a performer. One who was not capable of deep thoughts.
A chain of bad luck plagued him when he first arrived in London. Abandoning a job opportunity for a drastic change, being held back from success while his friends flourish…
Being jealous of other's peoples' success instead of being proud like how he would had, should had.
What was wrong with him? He was just getting sad and depressing at other peoples' milestones as a result of this!
Seeing the world through rose coloured lenses does not help with that, a voice in his mind told him.
Was it even helpful to see the good in things when everything around was crumbling apart? Would it be helpful to pick up the pieces even when you knew that the rest would come down anyway?
He busked not because he loved performing. He busked to seek self validation.
So selfish.
Why was he so selfish?
He snapped himself out of his thoughts. No no, he busked because he wanted to do something useful with his talents while still technically helping people.
See? A selfish need for self validation.
He did it because he was bored.
That was it. That was the reason why he should do what he did. Because he was bored.
He stopped himself right there.
When had he become so… needy?
Selfish. Needy.
Where would he be without his friends? Why was he being so selfish while he was having everything served on a silver platter?
Not everything.
He wasn't that dependant. He still went out, lived his life.
Lived his life ignoring his problems, pretending that they would go away by themselves.
Wait, no no, that was the problem. He was so… negative.
A negative air had started him wherever whether he wanted or not. It unconsciously played in his mind whenever he saw someone else succeed, whenever he was alone, while talking to people sometimes, even.
He was not himself.
Was this a new Francis? Was this who he was now? A self decaptrative, selfish, ungrateful fake?
Perhaps it was best to hide all this. Perhaps it was best to continue pretending that all these problems were gone. After all, what if he did tell anybody this?
Everybody would see who he was; a deadweight, a fake only pretending to care about other people for the sake of manners.
That, or they'll feel sorry for him, care for him even more, to the point of poisoning and ruining other peoples' lives, further proving that he was just needy, selfish, and useless.
Everyone around him were so, so much better than him. Antonio could choreograph dances, Gilbert's coding was the backbone of softwares, Arthur could create stories...
What could he do? Play the saxophone? It took him hours to transcribe a melody, let alone write one.
He sighed. They deserved so much better.
His eyes started to feel dry. He yawned.
What time was it?
He cursed when he realised that he had left his phone at home. See? you couldn't even remember to bring it.
More thoughts spun around his head as he went back to the apartment. He took deep, controlled breaths in, and breath by breath, he felt the cold London air chill his lungs. Breath by breath, the weight of the vacuum shedded off of his chest.
The brief feeling of weightlessness was a point of relief. And for while, he just walked.
His life spiralled down that far down when he came to London.
Should he return to France? If he returned to France… no, he could not just go back to France. Antonio and Gilbert chose to move to London with him. It wasn't….
Was it fair?
His mind wandered: what if he did go back to France?
He thought back to his mother and Lisa. Paris always reminded him of them when he thought back. Paris probably had less careers anyway; he should already be replaced in his previous job. What use was it to go back?
Before he knew it, he was in front of the apartment door. Based on how dark it looked on the inside, Gilbert and Antonio had probably already gone to sleep.
He fumbled out the keys, and unlocked the door. As the door creaked open, as he had expected, the dark, empty living room greeted him back.
He sighed. It was probably very late already.
Closing the door behind him, he left the keys on the top of the table, and went to the bedroom.
Sure enough, Gilbert and Antonio were fast asleep in the top bunk bed and the sleeping bag. He climbed into the lower bunk, closed his eyes, and drifted into an empty sleep.