He has a secret he keeps deep inside, like a fog trapped in a hidden box. He has a private sorrow he never lets out, like a caged bird in a windowless room.
He goes about his day performing the usual routines: The bed is made with ritual neatness and order. The teeth are brushed with hygienic dental efficiency. The breakfast is eaten with nutritional prudence. The commute is taken with minimum human interaction. The job is performed with the required productivity. The journey home is undertaken with somnambulistic silence. The supper is consumed with detached indifference. The television is viewed with head-nodding boredom.
He gets into his bed at midnight, and the secret emerges:
He has a secret he keeps deep inside, like a tiny light locked in a dark room. He has a private sorrow he never lets out, like a tear that refuses to spill from an eye.
She walked out of his life long, long ago, yet he never stops longing for her. He loves her as much now as the day she left, and he knows he can never tell a soul.