I was telling someone just a few days before that night. I was telling him how strictly I insisted on living just by myself for the first two years I got here. I even had some sort of phobia I guess, I don't know. I was too scared for my privacy being kind of invaded. Then I explained how good I feel now about having roommates and the fact that probably I was so lucky and my first roommates turned out to be really really good. I then recalled and told him about one thing I have really missed since I gave up living alone. The fact that when I get home tired from work sometime around 9-10 pm and I rotate the key in the lock hole and open the door, the silence that all of a sudden pours down on me, that silence, the peaceful experience that happens right away when I get home, after a very long day, right at the entrance door, I've missed that experience. Usually when I get home both my roommates are already home and there would be some source of noise somewhere. Yes that's what I was telling someone a few days before that night.
Both my roommate left the town a few days later and I was alone for like 5-6 days. That night I got home, unlocked the door and something poured down on me. I can't say it was a pleasant feeling. It was more like someone put a bucket on top of the door to tease me. It was not just silence, there was a weird feeling with it. It was like looking at a black and white photo or movie while you know there already exists a colorful version. Looking at that black and white version could totally be a nice experience, a classy one, a nostalgic one but there's something missing in it. The colors make the picture, the scene more realistic, more beautiful, more joyful in general; they give it some texture, some little spice maybe. The black and white version has all the essentials, one can't deny, but there is always something missing, like in a food with no spice whatsoever. It's great, prevents you from starving but you could realize there is something missing. Something was missing that night too.
