[ CW ] Write a horror story with no gore or death , not even implied .

I ca n't really get out much, anymore. 
 
 Passers-by smile at me. Would that I'd smile back, but those days are long over, it seems. The people I see are as superficial as ever, their platitudes and honeyed-words meet my ears from all directions, of course, and the daily grind runs ever on, but the days stretch a little long, now. And thin, too. Used to be I'd enjoy a pleasant evening stroll after dinner, watch the sun fall behind the city skyline from the park, but there's really no time for it, anymore. Not on my schedule, no. I just ca n't get out, much. 
 
 Dinner these days is a stilted affair. The people all around me simply go through the motions, it seems. Even at table the people waiting on me seem to feel a cold sense of obligation, not friendliness, as if they were putting kibble out for a cat instead of serving a customer. I get to feel a little less like a person, and more like a number. Common complaint this day in age, I know, but it used to be that when I felt that way I could at least vent a bit to someone, or go off on my own for awhile to think, to cool my head on a nice drive down the coast. Ca n't get around to doing that much, these days, either. Not with the schedule I keep. It's just damn near impossible to get out, in fact. 
 
 That was one of the reasons she left, I suppose. Ca n't blame her, you know. Even in such a cold and impersonal world- a place of numbers, and not people- that blow was the most severe to me. I still smell her auburn hair ruffling in the wind, and I can still see those jewel-like eyes, blinking at me coquettishly. She was n't so coquettish the last time she saw me. She had a little speech to give, you know, about how difficult it was between us, these days. I do n't blame her for leaving. Really, I do n't. It's hard enough managing a relationship these days as it is; how much harder it must've been for her, since I ca n't really get out, much. 
 
 So I do n't blame her. Really, I do n't. 
 
 Seasons change outside. People come, people go. I dream of walks in the park; I dream of driving down the coast. I dream of casting off my worries, at least for a little while. 
 
 I dream of getting out, at least for a bit. 
 
 Another nurse stands before my chair. She smiles at me, superficial as ever. Same platitudes; same honeyed words. I only stare vacantly past her, a spot of drool curling down my chin. I'd like to tell her that her words are so meaningless to me, but I ca n't really get out much, anymore. I just ca n't get out, you see. Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. 
 
 Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. Ca n't get out. Ca n't
