Kings Cross, Sydney — September 4th, 2008.
Night—around 12:30 AM.
The night air was humid, pressing close like damp cloth. Danny leaned against the wall of an alleyway behind a club, shoulders hunched, hands in his jacket pockets. Music throbbed behind the brick.
He wasn't sure how he got there. A man staggered past him, laughing too loud, trailing cigarette smoke and a girl's perfume.
Danny didn't move. His eyes tracked the man with mechanical detachment, as if watching through a screen.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out. A calendar reminder.
(Therapy Session - Tomorrow 11:00 A.M.)
He didn't remember setting that. Didn't remember agreeing to anything.
He scrolled through the rest of his calendar, Nothing was there. No job appointments, no names. Just blank blocks of days.
He checked the call log again. The same number from before—Claire—still sat at the top. He stared at it and pressed the call.
Voicemail again, the same voice. Soft and familiar. "Hey, this is Claire. Leave a message."
Every time he tried to call her, it always goes to Voicemail. Which puzzled him.
He didn't speak and just listened to the silence after the beep, then ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
His hands were shaking. He stepped out onto the street. A group of men stood near the curb, talking with that kind of low, leashed energy that always sounded like it was about to explode into shouting. One of them looked over.
"You alright, mate?"
Danny nodded once. "Fine."
The man smirked. "Don't look at it."
Danny didn't reply, just walked away.
Past the club, past the kebab shop, past a woman smoking under a broken streetlight. His feet ached, like he'd been walking for hours.
He found himself outside a building he didn't recognise. A small flat, dark windows. Third floor light on.
He stood there for a full minute, unmoving. Then turned and walked away. But something about the place wouldn't leave him.
He checked the photo app on his phone. One picture. A blurry photo of a boy—maybe seven or eight years old—grinning over a half eaten piece of toast. In the background, a woman. Her face turned slightly, laughing.
Danny stared at it. The picture was dated four days ago. He didn't know either of them.
He turned off the phone and kept walking, faster now. He didn't know what he was escaping.
But it felt like it was behind him. No…maybe inside him or maybe both.
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 4th, 2008.
Morning, 8:23 A.M.
The toast burner again. Daniel stood in front of the toaster, eyes fixed on the smoke curling like quiet ghosts towards the ceiling.
He didn't move. Didn't even flinch until the fire alarm let out a short beep, breaking the stillness.
"Oh, shit."
He unplugged the toaster, slid open the window, and fanned the smoke with a plate. After a few seconds of fanning the alarm stopped.
Claire entered from the hallway, pulling on her sweater. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," he lied. "Just distracted."
She watched him as he tossed the blackened toast into the bin. Her look wasn't angry—just worried.
He turned away. They didn't speak again until she and Ethan left. The quiet that followed wasn't new—but lately, it felt lonely.
He sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his knees loosely, watching the light spill in through the curtains.
He picked up his phone. Open browser tabs flickered across the screen.
(Sleepwalking and memory loss)
(Can stress cause personality shifts)
(When you feel like a stranger in your own life)
He didn't remember reading any of them. He never used his office phone for personal use. He set the phone down and exhaled slowly.
There was a time—not long ago—when he thought life would level out. That family, structure, and steady work would dull the sharp edges. But instead, life just became quieter, not easier.
Being a man wasn't about bravado. It wasn't about money, or holding it all together. It was about being invisible when it mattered. Fixing what broke without ever letting the cracks show. Being calm when the weight sat on your back and smiling at the dinner table.
And if you broke—who would notice?
Daniel stared at his hands. They didn't feel like his own anymore. They just felt unfamiliar.
He remembered something his father once said, long ago—too young to understand it back then.
[Men don't fall apart. They just disappear a little each day.]
Daniel hadn't understood it then. Thought it was cynicism. Now he wasn't so sure.
Because something was disappearing inside him. Just skipping quietly through routine, expectation, responsibility. Everyone wanted something from you. But who ever asked what you needed?
He picked up the phone again and stared at the blank calendar. Then, slowly, he opened a new note and typed.
(I think I'm missing parts of myself.)
He stared at the sentence and deleted it and typed again.
(Maybe I'm not missing anything. Maybe there's just more of me than I realised.)
He saved the note and closed the phone. And sat quietly, in a house that still didn't feel like it fully belonged to him anymore.