Whenever I'm out for a smoke break I pretend I am Jonathan Sims who is brooding over the world ending because of him and desperately looking for a solution. I click my web-decorated lighter on and off to nervously fidget with it and submerge myself entirely in his character as if I am the one who's about to go to the Panopticon and stab Jonah Magnus. I pace back and forth clutching my thin PallMall as if it's the only thing that eases my anxiety before I face the apotheosis. I desperately wish for my own Martin to appear and lovingly caress my face and tell me it's okay.

But he never appears.

As I don't have my own Martin.

Disappointed, I return back to work with my heart heavy in my chest. The clothing hangers don't feel the same in my hand. The vintage clothing doesn't soothe my soul like it used to. And sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, a mannequin seems to move and appear a bit too alive for my liking, but I try not to pay my mind to it as I rearrange and archive the papers again.