The front door opened with an annoying creak. He'd fix that, once he got around to it. Eventually. The house smelled of mildew, or something else. Some weird scent, not quite rotten but definitely something other than clean, unremarkable enough to not warrant further inspection, but strange enough that it wasn't beneath notice, despite living here for nearly a year.

  Or was it two?

  His memory was foggy, as usual. Not that it mattered. He crossed the living room, turned and casually threw his bag into some corner, and laid in bed. He was tired. A couple things nagging here and there - things to be done, ambitions to be realized, but they fell to the wayside of tomorrow with the ease of a long remembered habit. A moment passed. Perhaps a few minutes, maybe an hour, it didn't really matter. He raised his head off of his bed a moment, considering if he should do something, then decided against it.

  More time passed. He finally rolled out of bed when night had clearly arrived. The light was off, but he navigated his bedroom with a tired memory, feet sweeping out slowly and avoiding the careless clothes strewn about - he'd get to them later, when he was less hungry. Opening the fridge led to an unsurprising emptiness. There were hot dogs at least, to go with the mac and cheese. A whiff of the milk jug made it clear that it wasn't too far gone for food, probably. His nose wasn't that good as of late.

  Ingredients gathered, he looked around for a pot, only to find it still sitting in the sink, dirtied with last night's mac and cheese, atop a pile of other dishes from perhaps weeks before. He simply stared for a moment, fridge open and box in hand. He'd need to clean the pot, then set to boiling the water, then once boiling he'd need to put the pasta in, then strain it, then-

  The crunch of gravel underfoot was a salve of sorts. He hadn't bothered locking the front door, there was little point. While there was thieves, they hadn't bothered him yet, and he'd already crossed the street. He'd have to turn around and then rummage into his bag and then go back and-

  The bell above the door chimed as he walked in, the harsh lights of the gas station making him wince before the adjusted. He didn't really know why he came here. Looking around, he didn't see anything he really wanted. He wandered for a moment, but there really wasn't much wandering to be done. He'd been here plenty enough. He didn't want to leave without buying something, so he wound up grabbing a lighter. They were cheap, and weren't candy.

  What the hell am I doing?

  He thought, staring at the highway below. He'd gotten on a bridge crossing over one at some point. He watched the cars pass underneath. A steady set of headlights and tail lights, all passing underneath. He didn't really think. He could feel his mind working outside of his control, that uncomfortable sensation of the subconsciousness slowly forcing him to acknowledge the thoughts he did his best from breaking the surface. He distracted himself the best he could with thoughts of other things.

  The taste of metal. The all too quickly fading pulse of adrenaline. The cold grip of steel. The void that came afterwards, once filled with regret, now merely resignation.

  Well, perhaps the thoughts wouldn't break the surface tonight. He'd just sink into them. He stewed and ruminated, barely conscious of the world around him. He barely noticed the figure behind him till they called out.

  "Hey, you got a light?" It took him a moment to respond. He had a lighter on him, maybe. A quick pat down found it, though if it would work was in question. He nodded, proffering it to the stranger.

  "Thanks," he said, nonplussed by the complete lack of response. "You smoke?" he asked, the offer implicit.

  "No." He managed, his voice raspy with disuse.

  "Good, don't start." He said, leaning on the bridge railing as he lit the cigarette. "Oh, you mind if I smoke here?" He asked belatedly as he returned the lighter.

  "Don't mind." He responded, half looking at the stranger. In the dim moonlight, he looked more like a silhouette that wafted cigarette smoke. The man leaned casually against the railing, looking towards the lightless clouds, flashes of traffic below illuminating a few features, here and there. A youthful physique, and a posture that suggested a casual certainty in the way the world would be there tomorrow. It felt like looking at the man he was a decade ago. The dim moonlight only made him more statuesque. A moment passed like that, neither speaking, the silence stretched onwards, the beginnings of an abyss he lacked the ability to bridge, but he didn't know how to stop it.

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  "Nice night huh?" The stranger broke the silence with the sort of confidence that suggested he'd never noticed it. "Not chilly, not warm, not too humid or windy."

  "Yeah." He responded. He didn't really have much to say on the topic. Trying to muster up a response, he began "Rem-"

  "What's your name, by the way?" The stranger interrupted, not noticing the beginnings of a response. It took him a solid moment to remember.

  "Callum." He responded. It had been a while since he'd actually thought of it.

  "Micheal," came the strangers reply, without hesitation.

  They sat in silence for a moment, Callum staring off into the distance not thinking of much at all while Micheal smoked. A minute or two passed, neither of them saying anything, just looking at the slow movement of lights in the distance.

  "You ever get tired of thinking of the future?" Micheal randomly asked, cigarette pinned between fingers.

  "I do my best not to think of the future at all, honestly." Callum replied, his voice less raspy than before.

  "I'm tired of thinking about the future. I've been thinking about my future and school and family and all these things that should matter, and yet I can't bring myself to care." There was no conflict or sorrow in his voice, just a tired apathy. The same words he probably said a decade ago, the same thoughts he had had, Callum thought. "I don't really know." Micheal shrugs. "I'm tired. Of everything, I suppose. I don't wanna die but I don't wanna keep living in this... mundane limbo." The statuesque figure looked less certain now. The certainty was there, but it was tired. "I don't know," He muttered, ending his statement. Callum didn't respond for a moment, thinking.

  "I've thought the same things when I was your age." He responded, the adage sounding weak, even to his own ears. "I can't say it will ever get better." He admitted. "Don't let yourself grow complacent, though." The irony ringing clear in his mind even as he continued "That apathy, that tiredness, it makes you let go of everything. Just let the days flow by with nothing being done. And that will hurt - in a dull, crushing way." At some point Micheal had turned to look at him.

  "So what then?" He asked. "Is it just shit? Are we broken? Are we just waiting till we die?" He asked half rhetorically, without heat. It was almost joking, and clearly had been said in the same way before. Callum had done the same when he was younger. He recognized that much.

  "Basically." He responded matter-of-factly, to Micheals surprise "You'll suffer regardless. No matter what you do. That ache might never go away, but letting it decide what you do will only make it worse." Callum said, as much to himself as to Micheal. "If there's one thing to force yourself to remember, it's that it won't ever go away. You need to force yourself to do things, and eventually it'll fade into the background."

  "Yeah." Micheal responded, understanding, the answer an echo of his own forgotten thoughts.

  They talked for a while after that. About what, they barely remembered. What they did remember was that by the time they finished, the beginnings of a sunrise had started, and they'd both gotten a solid look at eachother.

  Callum saw a young man, his tired apathy having faded into a calm resolution. Micheal saw someone who was likely a few years younger than his appearance suggested, a tired face with an expression faintly bordering on doggedly resigned.

  Both felt like the other was better. Ahead. That they were behind. Neither voiced those thoughts, obviously. One of them offered a hand to shake, and they parted ways.

  Once he was out of eyeshot, Micheal casually reached into his pocket and chucked a pillbottle off the bridge, not bothering looking to see where it landed. He'd have shit to do when he got home. Enough moping. He couldn't afford the habit.

  Callum didn't remember the walk home. He didn't really feel much of anything. He did go to his room and turn the light on, and start the slow process of picking the clothes off the floor, and folding them. That felt like a victory of some kind. The desk full of junk could wait - the thought came naturally, only to be interrupted by the sound of his hand slamming on the cheap wood.

  He started clearing the desk of the junk as well. And eventually, bit by bit as the junk was cleared, he made his way to the kitchen. The jacket came off and the sleeves were rolled up, as a brave hand went into the opaque water and began fishing for the plug amongst all the organic matter that was once food. Slimy textures and such grabbed at his hand, but he didn't bother stopping. meticulously, one by one, the dishes were washed. I might've taken twice as long as it should have, but they were clean. Eventually, he found his way to his bedroom, hands damp and mind - if not body - tired.

  And for the first time in a year or more, he felt himself sleep with satisfaction, even knowing he'd have only a few hours of sleep before he'd need to get up for work tomorrow.