He was known in the neighborhood as “the perfect guy.”
Always well dressed, always smiling, his words carefully chosen.
People felt comfortable around him, as if his presence promised something sweet—
like a cake displayed behind a glass window.
No one ever asked if he was okay.
Everything about him looked complete.
And he never complained.
He never said he was tired.
He just went home every night, closed the door, and let the mask fall.
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