Lol. That was as much of a reply that his mind could muster. Watching her fleeting face on from her web cam, the way she slid her finger through one of the locks in her mane of curly, black hair and twisted it till it was taut, before gently freeing her grip and letting it recoil like a spring. Watching how that same finger of hers would run slowly down the length of her fair façade down to the lower of her half-parted lips, full and pleasant, before she finally made up her mind and slid both hands down to her keyboard to type him, or some other of the many guys she chatted with, a reply.

Lol. That was all he could think of doing. That was all he COULD do, after the images of himself prancing down the corridors of his secondary school, youth in one hand and gaiety in another, and in both bags of boxed drinks for his mates in class, faded into a bleak, cold classroom with nothing on the walls and nothing on the desks, and a classroom completely silent except for the half-joking remarks of his lecturer, “uhm, hey, can somebody wake him up?” and a follow-up remark of another girl, “I thought he was reading, with his head tilted down like that…”

Lol. You could live up to ten years more if you’re able to laugh at yourself and your own mistakes, said a Reader’s Digest survey. How he laughed at the way he used to be so calm and confident, a prime specimen of a person poised to be of utmost success in society, and gave it up for a life of care freeness and neglect, a life of fleeting dreams through running water.

Lol. Why did he shrug everything away with a laugh? Why did he think that he could go on being this way? Contenting himself with nothing but his own condolence, while all the while having nothing to show of himself? What was he missing out on? What was he doing wrong?

Lol. In his jumbled mind his fits of cynical laughter turned into distinct sobs of longing. He turned off the computer and shut the lights, hoping, at least, he could laugh in his sleep.