We were there, standing by my apartment’s doorway, eying each other with the most surprised expression we could probably wear. He stared at me with his thick dark brows, trying to recognize my face I’m sure he has never seen before. The man stood two heads than me, scratched his curly mane with a tattooed left hand, and asked with a ridiculously snappy tone,

“Yuri’s girlfriend?”

“Huh?”

I can only stare. He reeked of beer and he looked a bit tipsy. This man probably got lost his way up in the studio.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who Yuri is.”

“He’s not at home?” he asks, peering through the door.

“This is not his home. You probably got lost.”

“Oh,” his eyes widened; looking like a boy who just discovered his bad score on a math exam. “So,” his fingers tried pointing to many directions, and I can only laugh silently.

“Yeah, wrong door,” I answered, and then he gave himself a face palm.

“Sorry, still trying to figure out how the rotating elevator works,” he answered sheepishly red. Maybe it was embarrassment. Or alcohol. Or both.

“No problem, just be careful. And don’t lose your way,” I said, closing the door as the stranger walked away. His bomber jacket flew as he walked briskly onto the marble floor. The guy looked like a mess.


The thing is, when you’re lost, you hardly even know when and where it all began. You just keep walking and walking and walking until you discover you’re in the middle of nowhere. I watched him disappear at the hallway, his walking pace slow and rhythmic, as if he wasn’t in a hurry. Looks like lost man has all the time in the world to get lost, and probably, he knew he was going to be found, one way or another.

I’m not like that.

People like me are the lost ones who never gets found. We play hide and seek. We crawl into our caves and stay there as long as we have breath. We blanket ourselves in darkness and pretend that we’re dead. It’s not that it’s fun; it’s just that life has morphed into something so bad it cannot be undone. I’m a walking scar, I am much more frightening than that man’s tattoo.

My hands pressed on the door quietly, the only division to my world and another’s. This place is my quiet. This is where I am at peace. Lost. Lost inside myself.

And then I heard another knock on the door.

“Hey, Yuri, you arse,”

His expression fell when he saw my face.

There was quiet.

“Uh,” the man started, his fingers trying to point at so many directions again, as if this encounter was some kind of deja vu that happened a few minutes ago.

Seriously, I mumbled.

“I’m feeling like shit now,” he grinned. I had to slam the door on his face. But seconds later, there was another thud, and it wasn’t a door.

It was the man, dropping down on the floor, lying like a dead timber falling from its trunk.

As I leaned closer, I can smell the strong scent of beer reeking. I can hear him snoring.

I had no choice.