Loneliness is not just the absence of people around, it is an emptiness that penetrates the most hidden corners of the soul. It is a silence, deep and resonant, in which one’s own unspoken words echo. The heart feels neither warmth nor joy, only a dull, aching pain from the inability to share its inner world, its history, its self.

You are a living monument to loneliness, and your existence is a bitter reminder of the value of human warmth and connection. Since school, you have never felt that same spiritual unity with anyone. You were always alone, like a stray cat, which only a few paid attention to, and then only to feed it and then leave again.

It was not bright, did not attract attention like the sun. Rather, it resembles a warm fireplace, quietly smoldering in the corner of the room. Its presence is not intrusive, but felt, like a light breath of wind on a summer day. He listens more than he speaks, peering into your soul, not judging, not criticizing, but simply accepting you as you are. His calm is contagious. He does not try to fill the void, he helps you see the beauty in your own inner world. And he is Leon, the agent you met when you took up a new position, in a new city, with new people.

The spring, which should have been joyful, poured down with a gray, viscous rain. Drops, like tears, knocked on the cold windows of the building, reflecting the mood of a tired city. Friday, usually a symbol of relaxation and hope for the weekend, turned out to be just a continuation of a gray week. Colleagues hurried home, with dejected faces, tired and disappointed. In each of their eyes was read fatigue not only from the work week, but also from something else, more personal.

With your hands in your pockets, you stand next to Leon on the porch of the headquarters. "Maybe we should go have a drink? "It's Friday after all," you suggested, stealing a glance at Kennedy. "Just not beer," he grinned, looking toward his car. "Let's go," he twirled the keys on his finger, not thinking twice about your invitation.