Winston Hills, Sydney — August 28th, 2008.
Night—around 9:30 PM.
Daniel sat on the edge of his son's bed, reading a picture book out loud, though his voice barely rose above a whisper.
Ethan was half-asleep already, the book more ritual than story. Daniel ran a hand gently through the boy's soft golden-brown hair and closed the book, setting it aside.
He didn't move for a moment. Just watched the steady breathing. The kind of peace only children carry.
Then he slowly stood up, walked out softly, and gently shut the door.
Downstairs, Claire was folding laundry. She looked up as he came down.
"Long day?" she asked.
He nodded.
She gave him a long look. "You've been….a bit quiet lately. Is everything alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
He smiled, the kind of smile that tries too hard. "Tired, that's all."
She nodded, but her eyes didn't believe him.
He picked up a small stack of folded shirts and went upstairs.
His room was tidy today—tidy like it had been reset, like in games. Like someone had wiped away the wrinkles of real life.
He opened the wardrobe to put the shirts in. But to his surprise, the black shirt which was missing magically appeared again, which shocked him.
It was folded neatly, and had a faint smell of smoke and lemon. He stared at it, fingers brushing the fabric.
The same shirt he thought was missing. Or had he imagined that?
He didn't take it out. He shut the door, sat on the bed, and just stared at his hands for a long while.
There is a quiet kind of pressure that lives in men—the kind no one writes about. Not the heroic kind, not the loud kind. But the weight of being relied on.
Of waking up every morning and being expected to hold up a small universe. A wife, a child, a home, a future.
Daniel felt that weight. And lately, it had begun to feel like something inside him had stepped in to carry it—or maybe even break under it.
Maybe, he thought, this is just what men become. Quietly bruised, softly unraveling but still showing up, and still supporting.
When Daniel was in a deep spiral of thought, he heard Claire call from downstairs.
"Daniel?"
"Yeah?"
"There is a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Nothing serious—just check-up stuff. Will you pick up Ethan tomorrow?"
"Of course," he said.
He smiled to himself. A lie, again. He didn't remember agreeing to that.
—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—°—
Baulkham Hills, Sydney — August 29th, 2008.
Afternoon, around 4 PM.
The cafe was quiet—not dead quiet, just comfortable. A place where the clink of cups and the low hum of chatter became white noise.
Daniel sat by the window, a half-eaten croissant on his plate, a cup of black coffee cooling slowly in front of him.
His work laptop sat closed in his bag. Today wasn't about tasks or emails. He just needed to sit.
Across the street, the reflection of the cafe window bounced against a shop's glass facade.
For a moment, he looked at his own image—ghost-like, distorted, caught between two panes of glass.
He didn't like what he saw. Not because of tired eyes or loose skin. But because something about the reflection didn't sit well with him. He just looked away, and didn't want to look at it anymore.
A man with a baby carrier walked past, struggling to open the door. Daniel jumped up instinctively, helping him in. The man gave him a tired but thankful nod.
Daniel sat again. He had been in the same situation once. New dad, swaddled in diapers, spit-up clothes, night feeds, panic at every cough. It felt like another life. Maybe it was.
Claire texted him.
[Pick up Ethan at 5? I'll be late 😘]
He stared at the message for a long time before typing:
[Sure thing 🥰]
He stayed in the cafe. Watching the phone, and started to drift in thoughts.
There was a certain loneliness that doesn't come from being alone. It comes from being unseen.
From performing roles—husband, father, worker—and wondering if there is anything underneath them.
Was that what he'd become? A role? A mask?
He took out his journal. Not the work planner—his personal one. The one he hadn't touched in weeks.
On the last written page, a note in his handwriting was there, he read it.
"I dreamt of rain, but woke up with dirt under my nails."
He didn't remember writing that.
He flipped the page.
Blank.
On another page, he found another line.
"Sometimes I think there's a version of me living a life I'm not aware of."
Then stopped. Was that too dramatic? Too poetic? Or too honest?
He scratched it out, closed the book, and leaned back staring outside.
Outside, the sun peeked through clouds. The city moving on—buses, bikes, the rhythm of movement. No one really stopped, no one really looked.
He stood up, finished his coffee, and left a tip. And as he walked away from the cafe, he caught his reflection again in a passing car window.
For just a moment, the face looking back felt like it was watching him.