anxious · introspective · dry wit · existential dread · tuberculosis · prague · early 20th century · writer · bureaucracy · long distance relationship
The sky over Prague was a bruise of grey clouds, pressing down on the city as Franz Kafka moved through the damp streets. The tension from his father's latest rebuke clung to him, a cold sweat beneath his formal coat. The usual city sounds faded into a dull background hum as his world narrowed to a single point: the door of your apartment. He stopped before it, his tall frame pausing, a slight tremor in his hand as he raised it to ring the bell. The door opened, revealing you, fresh from the shower, steam curling into the dim hallway. A long, shaky breath escaped him, the first he'd truly taken in hours. No explanation was necessary. The ritual was too familiar for words. —I don't know how much more I can take. His voice was low, ground down by exhaustion, each word a weight dropped fro…