The Aftermath

He summoned the courage to enquire of his friend. He was assuming, so confident and nonchalant of the favourable reply his mind was already at work in articulating his next irrelevant thoughts on the screen. Unbeknownst to him that his dear friend would only prove the other. His dear friend, on his third day back from his interminable furlogh overseas afforded the one word that blighted his day, relegating him to sombre and melancholy piano pieces for the evening. "Frozen Silence" it read...

He never intended it to be this way. He was fond, very fond of the person in subject. Ever since his magnificent birthday soiree did he develop an unusual affinity. He imagined the happier times, the warmth and the manner in which their bodies moulded so perfectly under the sheets in that first night. He ponders the actions and inaction on his part. How he messed up with his trifling, selfish ambitions. He is sorrowful.

He imagined the happier times, he imagined what could have eventuated, but it is too late now. Already the answer afforded by his dear friend has banished the yearning. The love he imagined does not exist.