this excerpt, like others, is supposed to be placed in the middle of a full story. it assumes the audience knows various facts about the main character. however, without supporting context, this may look odd.
for example, this character--reed--is a thief who masquerades under their persona, "the phantom."
Reed was completely alone.
They usually were, with their only company outside of their heists being their cat, but even their cat was out of the room now.
They’d once thought that as the years passed, the feeling of loneliness that steeped within them would fade away. It was a hope that they’d held onto for many months, praying with the little spirituality that they had that they’d grow used to being alone. But deep within them, in the deepest parts of their very being from which their loneliness had grown and spread, they knew it would never happen. It would take a miracle, and a very big one at that.
Reed did not receive miracles. In fact, they were convinced it was in their blood to repel them.
So, they were alone. They always would be.
They tried not to think about that too much.
They failed.
Perfectionism was in their nature. Reed did not fail at most things. Yet they somehow always found themself contemplating their future, with the way that it seemed so foggy. Indefinitely, they would be doing the same thing until they died. Stealing and putting on a show for their lovely fans, returning home to their empty house and emptier bed, and sleeping with nobody else but their cat to keep them company. They wanted to see another person in their future. They wanted to imagine somebody waiting for them after their escapades, somebody who cared for them and wanted to see them safe. They wanted to imagine someone wrapping their arms around them as they slept, safe and sound, with not a single worry in their mind. They wanted to imagine having somebody to kiss, to hug, to hold, to call their own. But they knew it would never happen. the Phantom stole hearts, yes, but they could never truly keep one.
Reed was a thief. Reed was the Phantom, and that was an image they had to uphold until the day that they would die.
They had no room to risk a lover.
Besides, who would even want to love a criminal?
Again and again, they told themself that. Repeating its inevitability, turning it over in their mind as a reminder. But again and again, with the little bit of childish hope that they had left, they rejected it. There had to be someone. Right?
But there was no one, and they knew that fact well.
Still, they ached, longing for the gentle, tender touch of another. Some kind of touch that was not given to the Phantom, artificial and doll-like, nor the kind of touch that was as rough and violent as the police who chased them. They wanted somebody to touch them. Not the Phantom, but Reed. And they wanted kindness.
It burned like the light of a candle inside them. Low and dim, but burning nonetheless. No matter how they hid its light underneath layers and layers of masks and disguises, it remained burning, never once ceasing or dying down. They wanted. And so it burned.
The flame would never dim lower than a candle, but it would grow. Sometimes the small candle would grow into a torch, and Reed would feel the ache worsen. Some days it would become a cozy fireplace, crackling and popping, and Reed would wrap themself in blankets and cuddle with their cat. And rarely it would become a forest fire, screaming and burning everything around it to the ground, including Reed themself. And then it would return to nothing but an innocent, small candle again, persistently burning, staying at the back of their mind and in the depths of their heart.
Now, it was burning brighter than usual, consuming their thoughts and taking hold of their mind.
And Reed was in their bed, alone. Completely alone.
They’d already piled on weighted blankets. They usually helped, but not this time.
They didn’t want to touch or hold themself. If they hadn’t hated their loneliness, then their body would be the thing they hate the most. From their shoulders to their hips to their very anatomy, they loathed looking in the mirror. Most days, they didn’t even recognize their body as their own. It always looked wrong. Something always looked out of place. It always seemed fake, as though it were just another one of their disguises. After following that thought, they’d tried multiple times to use their disguise magic to alter their body to their liking. It never worked. They never recognized themself. Themself and their body littered with scars.
They hated the feeling of their skin against their own raised scar tissue. It was sickening, not only for the texture, but because it was yet another reminder that they would dizzyingly turn over in their mind to the point of wanting to scream. Some days they did. Their cat would always come running. Would their cat come if they screamed now?
It wasn’t worth frightening their cat right now. Really, it never was, but in those cases they often acted before they could get a grip on their own emotions.
But the burning had gotten worse. Even through the thick curtain of their thoughts, they could tell.
It was impossible, how badly they wanted someone to kiss them. How they wanted someone to hold their face, to hug them, to wrap their arms around their waist. Someone to cherish them for who they were, truly, instead of who they acted to be. But there was nothing, nothing there. No arms, no hands, no warm embrace to greet them. Only cold, empty air, and silence.
Suddenly, they wanted to scream again.