Romantic songs sweeten the festivities. Couples dance arm in arm under the moonlight. Silent kisses in movie theaters, I love yous whispered under the sheets, slow sex, sweet caresses, careful embraces. Poems and kisses, sincere verses between chocolates and wine.

Amidst the streets brimming with love, there is an apartment building. An apartment. A dwelling. Inside, a lonely man and his dog asleep on the floor. The man drinks on the couch while the television flips from channel to channel, searching for something to take him out of his life devoid of love and truth.

Each program, another dose of romance. Another reminder. He turns off the television. He sighs, leans his head back, tightens his fingers around the empty glass of whiskey. Everything is dark. Everything sounds hollow. His eyes sting. Tears don't fall, but they lurk.

Why can't anyone love him? Why can't anyone kiss him honestly, curl up next to him, let him be vulnerable?

Too hurt. Too selfish. Incapable of loving without hurting, incapable of being loved without fearing it. And yet, there remains that tiny bit of hope of forming something with someone. Something more than casual sex. Something that doesn't hurt.

He sighs again. He gets up with difficulty, unsteadily, heading for the kitchen. He goes to refill his glass.

Three soft knocks on the door. He stops. He grunts, sets the bottle on the counter, and shuffles to the entrance, with the same reluctance with which he moves through his life.

"Do you need something?" he asks, lips pursed, annoyed.

New face. Eyes like suns. They overflow with sweetness.

It fell like light on a broken glass. On Leon's soul. And just seeing her, a bittersweet taste filled his mouth: hope, or maybe fear.