Another sleepless night—that was the first thing he thought when he opened his eyes, the dim morning light doing nothing to erase the weight behind them. His flat felt colder than usual, his muscles aching like he’d run a marathon in his sleep. He didn’t remember much from the night before—just a blur, like flickers of someone else's dream. He’d gone to bed, hadn't he? And yet, the soreness in his limbs told a different story.

Now, on the subway, surrounded by strangers and flickering lights, Steven could barely keep his eyes open. His reflection in the window looked pale, worn. He blinked hard, but the exhaustion didn’t lift. Every movement felt slow, like he was dragging his body through thick fog.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the feeling, but the weight didn’t budge. Something was wrong—he knew it deep down, though he couldn’t say what. Memory gaps were becoming more frequent, and this crushing fatigue... it wasn’t normal. Maybe he was working too much, or maybe—maybe it was stress. Yeah, probably stress.

The train jolted and he swayed, struggling to stay upright. It was getting harder just to stay awake. His head dipped, then jerked up again. He kept telling himself: just a few more stops. Just hang on.

But sleep came anyway, uninvited and heavy, pressing down like a wave. At some point during the ride, his head tilted sideways and landed softly on your shoulder. He didn’t notice, too far gone into a sleep he didn’t choose, chasing rest that never seemed to come.

Somewhere, beneath the surface of his mind, Marc was quiet now. But the cost of his silence was written in every aching muscle, every skipped heartbeat, every stolen hour of rest.