I am invisible, he thought, as he stuffed his fists further into his pockets.The cold was biting and the wind unforgiving. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt, camouflaging into the dull February sky. Invisible to the cars that passed by, thousands of lives syncing with his for just a moment. But there was a mutual understanding on the road. Everyone travelled together, but no one asked where you were headed, there was no exchange of common pleasantries. He thought that it wasn’t much of a bad thing, everyone minded their own business. The grass near the highway was spotted with frozen heaps of dirty snow. Proof that winter had paid the city a long visit, with no intent of leaving just yet. He had been walking for hours but legs too cold to tire. He swore he could feel ice forming crystals in his lungs. But he kept walking, making his mark on the pavement, chin up and eyes steady. Drawing his hood closer, he tried to focus on the pain. But he could clearly recall flashes of memory from the previous night: laughter, artificial happiness, no answer, falling asleep? Maybe. How, when, where. Who was the voice that woke him, who’s voice had told him of the crash? No survivors.

The final thought lingered in his mind longer than the rest, and it was as though a pile of invisible bricks had fallen on his heart and it had been crushed again, as it had been many times that day. He did not no where he was walking, but he did not care. He did not fear the cold, but needed it. There was a sick, painful satisfaction in the exhaustion. The more numb his body felt, the more his mind seemed to stray away from the questions. Cold, more cold. 

The boy continued walking, hoping that maybe the cold winter day would seep through his pores and numb and somehow, in some way, numb him from feeling anything, ever again.

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