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the last time i went to the beach was after an entire year: i live away from the shore. the people there always seem to have planned out their activities in advance. many people go fishing; it's easy to see lines of fishing rods, those ice boxes that seemed to keep their catch fresh, a box full of different types of bait. but that time i saw something else. a crowd, practically piling onto each other, phones out and eyes wide. they were surrounding a fish—a huge, huge fish. thrice the size of my foot. the fish was dying, flopping on the ground with ugly desperation. someone kept a slipper next to it for comparison; the clickclick of people snapping pictures turned my thoughts mute.

i often feel like that fish. all the people in my life are spectators, watching with thrill as the pieces fall apart. so i make sure there is never a spectacle to see in the first place. birthday surprise, breakups, accidents—okay, okay, okay, i guess? it's easier on me to appear uninteresting; i like to stay unseen. there was a time where i was shoved up towards the crowd, like a painting in a golden frame, or like one of those marble sculptures. you stay in a pose—not one that you choose, of course—and stick to it forever, and no matter what you do, no matter if time is eating you up or your arms are aching from holding that pose, people will be there and expect you to be the same work of art. because sculptures are made of stone.

whatever i do, i can always hear the clicks of cameras in the back of my mind.

it must be ironic, then, that i work for a business that deals heavily with cameras. both the act of making and clicking photographs with them. mind you, i don't partake either of those specific activities—i'm a business analyst. essentially, i'm the corporate equivalent of the guy who's always giving advice. it's a lot easier than giving advice to someone personally. with work, there's a higher reliance on facts and data; though everyone's a human, so just the same social nuance is needed to avoid pissing people off.

this was never my dream job or anything, but the pay is good. and everyone wants to climb up the corporate ladder these days, so it can't be all that bad.

today the office is almost half empty. i'm not surprised: we're nearing the end of january, but it's going to be a month before winter walks away. some people are sick, some are working from home, and those that are here are feeling so gloomy that, if this were a college, it would be a massacre of grandparents.

i click on a new email that's just popped up on my inbox. it's from one of my co-workers, silena beauregard. i hear a specific pattern of footsteps before i can read the email—the dual-click of someone's heels landing decidedly before their toes—and from the pacing i can tell who it is. i glance backwards at nico di angelo. taking a part-time internship as a project manager's assistant, he's my co-worker, and also my friend of seven years. 'friend' is a loose term here. i'm not a particularly interesting person to be around; at most, i'm a memory of something more pleasant. i suspect that's why he still keeps with staying around me.

i close my laptop shut before he even speaks, spinning in my chair just enough that i can see him. he's wearing a burgundy sweater over grey pants, has his nails painted brown. it's a stark difference from high school—a time where he wouldn't dare put on a bracelet if he was paid for it—but it can only be a good thing. leave all your worst memories in the same classroom you wrote your worst test; that's what everyone seems to do.

"that's creepy," he comments. "how you always know it's me."

i simply give him a half-smile, pocketing my wallet and getting up. "how's it going?" i ask. it's a generic question, but i don't have much else to say.

he does. "not that bad, actually. hazel's landed her first job."

"oh," i say mildly. "that's great."

"yeah." he elaborates without waiting for me to ask. not that i particularly mind. she's always been interested in design, jewellery, wearable items—so she's first working in the advertising section for a jewellery chain. not quite the position she was looking for, but with a bit of time and experience she could get a promotion. apparently, the staff is all super nice to her.

except for this one guy named octavian, who's kind of a brat. no one really likes him.

he only finishes when the lift finally opens—when we're already on the second floor and walking out. there's a small food court here: subway, mcdonald's, several pizza places. unanimously, we decide that today's a pepperoni-and-cheese type of day.

"so," he says, looking at me. "how are you? anything's up lately?"

"nothing much. just usual stuff, i guess." again, it's the most generic response you could get. you can understand why i say that i'm not that great of a person for company.

i tell him to grab a seat while i order—after he insists on splitting the bill—and when i'm back with a buzzer he has his wallet placed on a table of four, where he's sitting and typing. he's texting his boyfriend, will; i can tell from the way his face lights up with his phone.

i wonder how it feels like, to think of somebody like that—so much that even texting them can make your world brighter. it seems more like a way of arranging letters on paper than it does a true thing. and yet, it's a noticeable reality for some people; nico is one of them.

trying to picture myself in his shoes makes me feel uneasy; so much that i need to open my phone and scroll through my instagram notifications. (a myriad of follow requests and DMs from a myriad of people i've talked to once in my life.)

i don't like thinking about people, sometimes. not in the narcissistic way where i only care about myself: i just find it overwhelming, that every person around me has their own train of thought and their own perceptions, and someone could be looking at me right as i'm walking and their brains will make their own little story behind it. the idea makes everything feel a little to real for my liking.

the buzzer glows red and rings on the table. there's not really a lyrical way to put down how the rest of my day goes; i eat, nico and i talk a bit, i work for the rest of the day. when it's evening, i hear nico complaining—jokingly—about how long it takes him to go to will's place. about how maybe he should save up for a car.

"you can use mine," i offer. i don't know why i say that. i guess i'm just not very keen on getting home so soon. today's one of those days where i'd prefer to draw out the day until it overtakes the night. maybe i'll roam around a bit.

"seriously?"

"yeah." i take out my car keys from my pocket and slide it across the table. and because i know he's going to protest, i add, "i'm meeting my sister at a nearby café, anyway. so it works out for both of us." that's a lie—and it's exactly what gets nico to tentatively agree.

he leaves, and i do too, but i don't go straight home. i find myself at wall street, and i just wander and wander and wander—until it gets dark and neon signs start lighting up everywhere. until music starts playing at each bar, and i can hear each of them rippling off each other's melodies, and there's groups of people walking around like scattered magnets, each conversation performing like those neon signs, trying to upstage the other. i plug in my earbuds and watch new york city unfold alongside the guitar riffs of heavy metal. 

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