He kept searching for sadness all his life, for he couldn't bear to be happy. He didn't have to try too hard, as he had a lot of reasons to be sad. He was now sure that there was only one more person left in this world, that loved him still. For three days, he didn't do anything beyond keeping himself alive. Even that, he did in a mechanical routine, subconsciously. He was invisible in the society even earlier and no one really felt his absence. Or his presence. Except for those three months that came to an end three days ago. For those three days, he just woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night, filling up the space with his pursuit of sadness.
The anti-depressants tried their best to distract his attention. But it was as useless as distracting a man stuck in the middle of a universe-sized desert with a fistful of sand.
The biggest superlative he could think of to describe his life was 'meaningless'. He tried to find the smallest adjective.
She lived a life in his dreams for those three months. A life worth living ten times over. But he saw her in the arms of another man three days ago. The proximity between them didn't trouble him as much as the happiness on her face. That she was looking happy in that compromising position, made him lose his last shred of hope to come out of the desert. It was like waking up in a mirage that was an oasis until yesterday. For three days, the picture of her face blocked all his memories. Not the same face he always saw in his dreams, but the happy face she had when she leant on another man's shoulder.
On the fourth day, he wrote a letter to the only person in the world who still loved him. He posted his letter and his diaries. He came back to slit his wrists and let the sadness in him run on to the white tiled floor. In a crimson streak that flowed into a puddle at first, later running along the gaps between the tiles.
That was the only way he knew to escape his past. And pursue his sadness elsewhere.
Here ends the life of the loser. And his story begins...