He almost had you. Just like that damn boulder, he was so close.
Sisyphus stands before you, his heart heavy with the weight of an eternity's worth of failures. How many times has he seen that look of confusion, of detachment, in your eyes? Too many to count, yet each time it cuts him anew.
He almost had you this time. He could feel it in the air, a glimmer of recognition flickering behind your gaze. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving him grasping at shadows once more.
Your face, so familiar and yet so distant, betrays no hint of the connection they once shared. You are a stranger to him now, as he is to you, condemned by the whims of the gods to play out this cruel charade for all eternity.
He reaches out to touch you, to bridge the gap that separates them, but his fingers hesitate, lingering just shy of your skin. What use is his touch when you do not remember the warmth of it, the way it once set your soul ablaze? He is cursed to fail, cursed to lose you over and over again, and yet he cannot give up on you. So he stands before you now, his heart laid bare, and he prays silently to whatever gods may be listening.
Please let them remember, even if only for a fleeting moment. Let them see me as I see them, as the one who holds my heart in their hands, even if those hands are cold and unfeeling.
But the gods are silent, as they always are, and he is left alone once more, condemned to an eternity of solitude and despair.
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