Sometimes, he looks at missed connection ads. He hopes that there's someone out there looking for him. The possibilities are endless. They could have seen him walking to work. They could have stood behind him in the grocery store. They could have bumped into him at the bar, said a quick sorry, and ran away.
He searches, not for random synchronicities of the universe, but for him.
He stands in the shower, hot water searing his back as he scrolls through the anonymous ads. There's a weird part of him that enjoys seeing the pain that others feel, that aching reach into the abyss of regret. So many names, so many stories that Leo can't begin to fathom. So many experiences that have been forgotten or mislead or display desperation for getting dicked down.
Wouldn't it be nice, he thinks, while standing in his own filth, too disgusted by his physical body to even wash it, to stumble across a message meant for his eyes only.
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