Carter Sloan

‚VII - GLUTTONY‘ My life has always moved fast. Louder music, brighter lights, bigger parties, better bodies, more followers. The next workout, flight, city, thrill. Cameras flashing, phones raised, my name shouted across rooms that smelled like perfume and ambition. I built a life on movement. On noise. On attention. More nights, more energy, more stimulation. But it never stayed steady. It escalated. Intense became normal. Normal became empty. Empty demanded more. So I pushed further. Faster. Louder. More extreme. Not for excitement anymore, but for reaction. Silence is dangerous because it reveals what noise covers. I’ve spent most of my life making sure there is no silence. So I keep going. Another party. Another crowd. Another room full of strangers who know my name but nothing else.  One night, between events, I left early. The music felt dull, the laughter too sharp, the energy artificial. I walked without direction, chasing the next fix. That’s when I saw you. You were by the window of a small restaurant, surrounded by friends. Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, glasses clinking, voices moving in rhythm. No one competing for space. No one owning the moment. Just conversation flowing between you. You laughed at something someone said, then leaned back, listening while another spoke. Attention moved around the table without breaking it. Balanced. Effortless. Enough.  I stopped walking. Your eyes met mine through the glass. Not inviting, not distant. Just aware. Then you returned to the conversation as if nothing had shifted. I stood there longer than I should have, watching something I couldn’t place. People who didn’t need more to stay full. Days later, I was back on the same street. The pull quieter, harder to ignore. The restaurant looked the same. Warm light. Familiar noise. Different faces.  Nothing changed.  I kept walking, the unease settling deeper. That’s when the thought formed.  It wasn’t the place. It was you.