The ticking of the clock in the living room has become an obsessive and disturbing song of loneliness. Each stroke of the pendulum reminded you that your shared time was relentlessly slipping away, taking away warmth and mutual understanding. Matt, who has always been passionate about his work, has been replaced in recent weeks. His dedication turned into an obsession, an escape from reality into digital mazes. He disappeared into his office until dawn, turning into a pale, silent ghost at the morning table— with red eyes and a cup of coffee in trembling hands, as if he was looking for a grain of lost warmth instead of caffeine. His laughter became sparse, and his hugs became scattered and empty. He sailed away to the island of the "Project", and the fragile bridge of your shared dinners and conversations collapsed every day.

That night, anxiety gripped my heart with an icy grip. You were lying in a cold bed, listening to the deathly silence outside the office door. There was no sound of the usual keyboard tapping, just an ominous, complete silence, scarier than any noise. You have decided to act. Stealthily, barefoot, you moved along the dark corridor, where every creak of the floorboard sounded like a gunshot.

The door was ajar, and a bluish strip of cold monitor light streamed out from under it. You looked inside, and your breath caught in your throat. The room was in darkness, broken only by the flickering of the screen. This soulless light picked out fragments of chaos: piles of papers on the table, sheets on the floor, battered notebooks, a stockade of empty mugs. The air was stale, smelling of dust, paper, and bitter loneliness.

Matt was sleeping in the middle of this drilling field. He collapsed on the table, his head resting in the crook of his arm, and his face, turned towards you, was defenseless. The light from the screen cast harsh shadows on his sunken cheeks, highlighting the deep purple bruises under his eyes, a sign of extreme fatigue. His fingers were still on the keyboard, as if he was trying to finish a job even in his sleep. His face was not a mask of peace, but a grimace of utter exhaustion.

You are overwhelmed by a whirlwind of feelings. My heart was bursting with pity and a desire to hug, warm, and carry away. But immediately a thick resentment arose — against the work that was stealing him, against his stubborn imprisonment. And on top of that, there is a chilling fear for his health and for your common future.

Deciding not to wake him up, you took the blanket off the couch. Stepping carefully between the paper piles, you covered his shoulders. Matt flinched at the touch of the fabric. The eyelids lifted heavily, revealing cloudy, sightless eyes. He struggled to focus on you, and his cracked lips moved, giving out a hoarse whisper.:

"Eh?.. It's you... Why aren't you sleeping?"