Lia

Lia - Image by Keegan Houser (Pexels)

Lia

The other day. In my apartment. Had just made a cup of coffee. Had brought it, placing it on the table next to my open laptop. The table was by the window. Pulling my seat to sit, my eyes drifted to the street below. Just a flick of the eyes. But something caught me. I turned away—paused. Turned back. Something was on the street. My gaze locked. Held. I stared. Kept staring. 

A man! He was there, below, on the street. He was walking, talking alone. His posture was uneven, his air unkempt. His clothes seemed to hold a ghost of former careful dressing—buttoned but uneven, tucked in places yet loosely hanging, as if the effort to look presentable had been abandoned halfway through. He looked on the verge of something – a slow unraveling, that first sneaks before swallowing you whole. 

When he walked, his steps looked hesitant, uncertain—a mistake, as if he wasn’t sure whether to move forward or turn back. He would pause abruptly, mid-stride, muttering to himself, his hands slicing through the air in frantic gestures. Then, as if struck by some private joke, he’d stop, take a slow drag from his cigarette, chuckle under his breath, laugh out loud and continue on. 

His fingers kept twitching restlessly, pulling at the collar of his unbuttoned coat, tugging, adjusting, as if the fabric unsettled him, as if to form a presentable look. 

Then he stopped—abruptly. He scratched his head, turned back in the direction he had come. However, as if reconsidering, he hesitated, started walking forward again, only to turn back once more. A cycle of indecision, a man caught between moving forward and retreating. 

There was something about him—something that made my chest tighten. I could feel my knees quiver. My fingers clenched. I gasped. It was that hesitation—that pull and release—that talking and laughing alone—that smoking. What was it? The way he moved. The way he paused. The familiarity in his hesitation. I had seen this before. Somewhere. Someone. Lia.  

Lia! A year had passed since I last saw him. Where was he now? I remembered him, standing in the doorway that morning, just in his boxers. He had wanted to say something. To say words. I could sense it about his eyes. 

The memory surfaced all at once. The apartment. The suffocating walls. The night it all unraveled. 

That night—I had come home late, careful, silent. I had found the door to our apartment locked from the inside. Not a surprise. This was Lia. Whenever he was upset, he locked the door from the inside. I would knock, plead, wait. I would wait there, in the corridor, sit, doze, sleep. Somewhere in the night, the door would unlock. He would rush back to his room, as if nothing had happened. 

I hated it. I would be exhausted, returning home from work. 

But that last night, the night I decided to leave—it was different. I could hear him pacing, talking to himself inside the apartment. After some hesitation, I knocked on the door. The door had flung open—violently, suddenly. 

Lia grabbed me by the collar. He pulled and swung me towards the living room. I went tumbling into the couch. His face was dark, his eyes feverish. He was heaving and puffing.  

I had seen the look before. I was used to it. Had withstood it for ten months long, living with him in that apartment. It was the grabbing and the pushing that shocked me. Before I could react, he lunged at me. 

“Why did you hack my computer?” he asked while he advanced fast, his voice low but sharp, "I know you did, why would you do such a thing?” 

I exhaled, leapt from the couch. He followed. “Lia, Lia,” I pleaded while running from him, “what are you talking about, I would never...” He kicked me—sent me stumbling toward the kitchen. He followed me there. 

“You fool, you hacked my computer,” he was now yelling, “there were pictures of my girlfriend, naked, you stole my pictures, why would you do that?” I knew it was pointless to try, to try to make sense to him. This wasn’t the first time he accused me of things—things I didn’t understand. 

Once, he had accused me of stealing his shirt and jacket. Another time it had been his tie. Before the tie it had been his TV remote. After the tie, it had been his ring.  

Each time, the accusations had come with such rage. He would erupt—call me names, swear I was a thief, threaten to call the police. Each time he accused me, he locked me out. Coming home from work, in the night, the door would be shut. 

One day, he placed a can of beans on top of the fridge. Later, when he opened the fridge, the can toppled, crashing to the floor, barely missing his toes. He had come for me, found me taking breakfast, chased me around the apartment shouting, accusing me of laying traps for him around the house.  

For days, I pleaded—swore I wasn’t out to get him. For days, he ranted. For days, I’d return from work, find the door shut, beg for hours before he let me in. 

In that apartment with Lia, I felt stuck. Helpless. It was a prison. I counted the months, waiting for the lease to end. Time had failed me. 

Each night after work, fear gripped me. The fear of going home to Lia. With Lia, there was always something—a complaint, a dissatisfaction. A risk. Either locked out or walking into his rage. 

When I met Lia, I had just arrived in the city. I knew no one. When we met, I was looking for a place to stay. He had a place. He had seemed calm. A gentleman. His laughter—charming. He was talkative, but in an engaging way—wanting to know more about me, my work, why I had moved to the city. Everything. 

I had liked him immediately. He would be a great roommate, I had thought. Someone who could teach me all I needed to know about this new city I found myself in. I signed a yearlong lease with him for a room in his apartment. 

A terrible mistake. Regret came fast. 

A few days into moving in with him, I started to notice things. Lia would move around the house talking to himself, laughing suddenly—so much that I often thought he had company, only to find him alone. Strangely, he was never embarrassed when I walked in on him. He would just keep talking. It was surreal. 

Lia smoked weed constantly, drank like it was survival. The smell of alcohol, burnt herbs—it lingered in the walls, in my clothes. Something in me coiled, a tight, uneasy knot. 

When he got high or drunk, his moods would be erratic and very unpredictable. The smallest things set him off. If it was daytime, I left the house. If night, I locked myself in my room. 

Most nights, I would hear him pacing, talking, laughing—his voice rising and falling in uneven tones. Sleep became impossible. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for silence that never came. 

Mostly, he talked about the government, about old friends—cursing the system for abandoning him after he lost his job, blaming friends for leaving him alone. I would hear everything he talked to himself about. 

I had immediately realized Lia was breaking down. He was depressed. On his good days, he would tell me he was growing old. That he had worked for the government for years, paid his taxes, yet when he lost his job, he was left to rot alone. He had reached out—to friends, old colleagues, people he had grown up with. No one came through. No one cared. 

I thought I could help—talk to him, offer solutions, be a friend. Things like that. Small ways to reach him. But nothing ever changed. When he was in a good mood, I’d sneak up, crack a joke, ask how he was doing, try to bring up his situation. Things like that. 

But they never worked. It never ended well. Somewhere in the conversation, he would snap—tell me I was no better than him, ask what I knew about suffering. Things like that—a guy like me could never understand his pain, how could I be of help?  

When he accused me of things and came after me, I always felt conflicted, I would sense his pain, his own frustration, his loneliness, his helplessness. I would want to relate. I was never sure whether to be angry with him or to pity him or to pity myself. 

Over time, I had started to second guess myself, maybe I was doing things that upset him. I felt confused about how to live, how to be careful around him. 

Every time he picked a fight, I thought of leaving. But where would I go? I was new in the city, knew no one, and had signed a yearlong lease I couldn’t breach. I felt imprisoned, trapped in his web of mental turmoil. 

That night—the last night, the night he attacked me—I had endured ten months with Lia. Ten months of pain. Ten months of fear. Sleep had become a battle. Every day was a slow descent into madness. 

On that fateful night, it became clear, such accusations were never going to end. When he had kicked me into the kitchen, I had immediately made up my mind. To leave. I was going to leave the next morning. 

From the kitchen back to the living room, he had come chasing me, shoved me in the back and I had fallen into the couch again. That is when I saw the knife. It was on the table. 

He had been eating an apple with it. Now, it rested on the table, half-buried in peelings. My heart pounded. My eyes locked onto it. Stories of stabbings rushed to my mind—things I had read, things I had heard. Stabbings that had been committed by roommates too. 

“Why did you hack my computer, you fool? I need my information back right now.” He kept demanding while he walked around the couch, around me, circling me. My eyes never left the knife. I was afraid he would see it, he would reach for it. I wanted to be ready to flee when he did. He could do anything, I was afraid. 

“You went through my things and you thought I would not know?” he asked, walking around back to where I was, found me, pinned me in the couch, I pleaded—I didn’t know how to hack computers. I would never think of it. 

Lia’s eyes flicked to the knife. My breath caught. But he turned back to me. 

“You’ve been plotting against me,” he said, "I see what you're doing. I should call the police. Or maybe... maybe I should handle this myself," he pondered. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. I wanted to move, to speak, but fear locked me in place. I watched his fingers twitch, his breath uneven. 

He moved back, letting me go. I remained on the couch, stuck. What if he picked up the knife and came at me? Where would I run? My eyes kept locked on the knife. 

He started to pace around the living room, shouting, calling me names, making more threats. 

“You know, I have people... you are new in this place,” he paused and faced me, “I could have them beat you up and force you to bring back my information,” he said. I remained quiet, my eyes not leaving the knife on the table. 

He started to pace again, kept pacing, shouting, calling me names, threatening to call the police on me and letting them know I was a hacker, a thief and was trying to harm him. For an hour, he ranted, circled, shouted. And I sat there, staring at the knife. Afraid.  

I’m sure the neighbors heard us. I’m sure they heard him go at me—every time it happened. He shouted, never caring who heard or who he kept awake. 

Finally, he was gone—fading into his room. Immediately, I had rushed to my room. Didn’t sleep. I spent the night packing what I could, what I found important, what I could carry. I could hear him going on in his room. He did not sleep. 

Looking down the street, I remembered Lia. Lia, where was he? Had he found help? 

Lia! Questions resurfaced. Had I failed Lia? Ten months with him—was there something I could have done? What if he had heard a voice of assurance? Could I have been that voice, telling him it was alright? But then... had I not... tried? I had reached out, hadn’t I? What else could I have done? How much is ever enough? 

I sensed his pain. I saw him frustrated. He looked like a man who had walked straight into a wall—no door, no way through. And at some point, he had stopped looking for one. 

And me? Where did I stand? How was I different from Lia? He was looking for a way out of a bad situation—or was he? I was just a guy trying to find my footing in a city that felt too big, too indifferent. I had arrived with dreams and fears, just like him. How many battles could I fight? 

When I left the following morning, my bags set outside the apartment, Lia had emerged from his room. He had stood by the door, just in his boxers, motionless. As I walked away, carrying the last of my things, he only stared. A void stare. Empty. I still see him there, frozen in that doorway, watching me go. 

His mouth had opened. He had wanted to speak. But no words came—just silence, his jaw slack, frozen in place. I was probably the last person left in his life, and now he had to watch me leave as fast as I had come. 

I have since seen several people on the street, on the subway, on the bus, people like Lia, people suffering like Lia, frustrated, their minds outplayed by the dreadful circumstances. Every time, my chest tightens. I shudder. 

When I remember Lia, the word 'support' comes to mind. It’s what we say when we talk about being there for someone. Support. We say it so easily. I say it too. But what does it mean—really? Lia showed me—sometimes, it's just complicated. When I had wanted to help, he always questioned—Who was I? What made me different? Was I better than him? You see—do you see what I mean? That’s the thing about support—it’s complicated. 

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