In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar as a stranger, polite as a lie. He touches his cheek. Feels skin. But not himself.
At work, they call him by name. He nods, shakes hands, laughs at jokes that land like stones in still water. No ripples. No echoes. Just the performance of a man who once felt real. Hollow Man
Night folds over him like a second skin. He lies next to someone he’d die for— but dying would require having lived. And living would require feeling the knife. In the mirror, a face stares back— familiar
And in the dark, he whispers to the ceiling: I was here once. Weren’t I? The ceiling says nothing. Because the ceiling, too, is hollow. Would you like a different tone—more poetic, more eerie, or more like a short story? But not himself