One after another. Light, quick, nonchalant.

Poured, as a quick one-sided conversation, the messages kept coming in.

On the background, music by an unknown artist. Unknown even to himself. Adding a reggae-folk soundtrack that sounded unintendedly tragic. The guitar riffs camouflaging the “new-message” tones. 

But the desperation kept building up. With every superficial message, a poignant indication that the truth was, still, being concealed. Or worse: never revealed. Each new line, a ticker tape reminder of how little he matter, how opaque and transparent he had become at once. Or perhaps he had always been invisible.

As he walked out the door, trying to leave the pain behind, the messages kept coming in…