Just Tired

Here’s a small extra called 'Just Tired' A short story about one of the side characters from my novel 'Inside the Suit'. I hope you enjoy this moment with David.

The port had the kind of heat that clung. It didn’t shine so much as settle — in the pavement cracks, the seams of café terraces, the folds of collars, behind the knees.

The air quivered above the cobbles like it was trying to rise but couldn’t find the strength.

From inside the arcade, David watched the light outside bleach everything to the same soft-edged white. Sunhats. Pigeons. The bone-pale wall of the farmacia.

The smell was a mix of sugar, oil, and the sea — sweet one second, briny the next. Somewhere nearby, a slushie machine whirred like it was dying slowly.

The arcade made its own weather: dimmer, cooler, louder. Coins clinking. Neon strobes pulsing in a steady, predictable rhythm. Buttons clicked. Speakers cheered. Lights blinked and scrolled and asked for another round. David moved through it all like someone checking the pulse of a sleeping animal — a slim man with a clean-shaven head, always in pressed trousers and polished shoes, carrying a faint trace of aftershave even in the sticky heat.

He liked the noise. He needed the noise.

Machines beeped when hungry. Flashed when something was off. Never vanished without a word.

His parents used to say video games would never pay the bills.

He hadn’t set out to prove them wrong. He just wanted something built to last. Twenty years later: three employees, a building full of machines that lit up when they were supposed to — and a few that didn’t, just to keep him honest.

He didn’t need it to be perfect. Just to work. And most days, it did.

The fan on the ceiling clicked like a bad knee. The floor was still tacky — Iker had cleaned it with window spray again, for reasons David had given up trying to understand. That faint citrus tang clung to everything now, even the token tray, which Iker had once wiped down with the same bottle, proudly announcing, “¡Mira! It kills streaks.”

David shook his head, half-smiling. Iker meant well. That was the problem.
In the back, the coin changer made a coughing sound. David tapped it gently. It whirred, spat out a single token, then fell silent again.

Outside, a small group of children passed by, their voices rising and falling like gull cries. One of them shouted “¡Mira esto!” — look at this — as he flung a bottle cap at his friend. Another called out “¡Olé!” just because the sound made him laugh.

One paused to peer inside, nose pressed to the glass for a second, then ran on.

It was nearly six.

He thought briefly of home — the cosy flat above the panadería, the chipped mug by the sink, the half-watched film they’d fallen asleep watching last night and probably wouldn’t finish. His wife would reheat dinner without asking questions. She always did.

He made a mental note to message her soon. Let her know he was here. Still in it.

A machine behind him pinged to life as a player reached a new level. David half-turned, listening as the sound cascaded into digital applause.

That sound still did something to him. After all this time.

He looked out again through the open door. The day hadn’t cooled yet, but the light had started to bend, softening against the shutters and awnings.

It would be quiet soon.

But for now, the machines sang. The arcade breathed. The world outside kept moving — unhurried, bright, indifferent.

David stood in the middle of it all — watching, listening, not ready to leave.

The light was starting to dissolve — that dusty, gold-tinged glow the port wore in the evenings, when the day hadn’t cooled but had stopped trying to impress anyone.

He stepped outside into the heavy air, the collar of his crisp shirt already sticking to the back of his neck. His bald head caught the last of the light. He wore trousers and proper shoes, same as every day, no matter how hot it got.

---

A short walk brought him to the yellow-brick doctor’s surgery — shutters half-drawn, the front step littered with paper flyers and dried leaves. It always looked faintly abandoned after hours.

David remembered sitting on its stone step as a child, swinging his legs while his mum argued with the receptionist about appointment times. Same peeling paint, same crooked blinds. One of the few things that hadn’t changed — not like the rest of the port, scrubbed up for tourist season, all tapas boards and boutique signage.

He wasn’t out for anything in particular. Just a loop around the block. A reset. Iker was managing things well enough for now, and David liked these moments — when the town shifted from day to evening, when the tourists slowed down and the clutter of the day melted off the pavements.

Then he saw the trolley.

Parked at an odd angle by the hedge, just a few feet from the surgery entrance. The head of the panda suit was wedged in the wire basket, lolling sideways as if it had been drunk and dropped. Its black-and-white furry body sprawled across the top, limp and creased.

David recognised the suit — cheap synthetic fur, faintly smelling of sweat and candy floss. He’d seen it dancing on the port last week, music blaring, waving at tourists with frantic, brittle energy. For a second, that was all he saw.

Then his eye caught a pair of legs — too long, too still — stretched just behind the bush.

It was Hugo.

They were the same age. Both born and raised here. They didn’t know each other well — just enough to nod in the street, maybe swap a line or two about the weather or rent. They vaguely remembered playing tennis against each other as teenagers, though neither could recall who won. Lately, they’d spoken more often — casual chats outside the bakery, a few comments about the arcade machines. Nothing deep.

Still, it was enough to make David’s stomach tighten.

Hugo lay flat on his back in the dry, weedy patch beside the surgery wall. One arm slack beside him, the other bent awkwardly near his stomach.

David’s mouth dried out, a metallic taste creeping in as he stepped off the kerb. He crossed quickly, shoes clipping against the pavement — the sound too sharp for the softening evening. He crouched low, one hand braced on the warm concrete, careful not to get dust on his trouser knee.

Hugo’s eyes were open. Unblinking. Fixed on the sky above him, as if the stars might blink first.

David leaned in, his face likely the only thing Hugo could see — framed by dusk, sweat, and a bush that smelled faintly of mildew and warm air.

“You okay?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. There was a flicker of absurdity — the moment too strange, too silent. For half a second, he genuinely wondered if this was performance art.

“Sí,” Hugo said, still staring upwards. The tone was empty. Not annoyed, not embarrassed. Just… far away.

David frowned. The trolley. The heat. The way Hugo was lying — limbs sprawled, face blank — like he’d unplugged himself from the world for a while.

“You hurt?” he asked, more gently this time.

“No,” came the reply.

David crouched lower, scanning Hugo’s face — damp hairline, blank mouth. Was this heatstroke? A faint? Something worse?

He hesitated. Then reached out.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me help.”

He offered a hand. Hugo didn’t take it. But when David leaned in further and reached under his arms, Hugo moved — sluggishly, boneless. All limbs and sweat. David had to shift his footing to lift him.

Once upright, they stood for a moment, not quite facing each other.

Hugo blinked slowly, like someone just unpaused — tall, a little too thin, all sharp lines and slack posture. His expression was unreadable.

“What happened?” David asked. “You sure you’re okay?”

Hugo nodded once. “Just tired.”

The way he said it — flat, like closing a door softly — made David’s throat go dry.

He’d heard those words before. From someone who was more than tired.

David adjusted the panda head in the trolley so it wouldn’t fall out. Its big black eyes stared back at him like it had seen everything and decided to say nothing.

He pulled out his phone, turning slightly away as he spoke.

“Hey, mi vida — yeah, I know. Machine jammed. Iker’s panicking.” A glance at Hugo. His voice lowered. “Gonna be late. Start without me. Sorry.”

He didn’t ask. Just took the trolley and started walking. The suit slumped across it like a body bag.

They moved slowly. David kept one hand on the trolley handle, the other at his side, matching Hugo’s pace. Not leading. Just beside.

They passed a couple locking up a gelato shop. A cat darted across an alley. The smell of bread clung to the air, even though the bakery’s lights were off. The town looked the same as ever. But something in it had shifted.
David didn’t look at Hugo much, but stayed close. Some silences didn’t ask to be filled. Just to be kept company.

The trolley wheels wobbled as they crossed a ridge in the pavement, the panda head bouncing with each bump. Hugo’s eyes were down. Posture hollowed. Like he’d become a passenger in his own body.

David didn’t ask where they were going. When Hugo turned left at the bakery, he followed without question.

The sun was low now, and the heat had started to slip from the walls. Faded blue shutters sat askew above closed cafés. A child’s wind-up toy clicked across a balcony overhead, then stopped.

They passed the frutería, crates still out front. Lights off, but the air held a trace of overripe fruit — sweet, sour, fading. Hugo didn’t react. He didn’t seem to register anything. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, but unfocused.

David had seen this kind of tired before.

The slumped shoulders, the way Hugo didn’t look up — it stirred something familiar. A memory that pressed in, hushed and unforgiving.

His younger brother Mateo had started to change when he was twenty. Quiet, first. Then slow. Days when he didn’t come home. Nights when answers were one word too short. David had noticed. And said nothing. Told himself not to push. That it wasn’t his job to intervene.

He’d meant to check in.

But sometimes “meant to” turns into never.

And silence turns into absence.

They passed a souvenir shop with its blinds half down. Inside, a man stacked tiny ceramic flamenco dancers into a tray with the kind of care that suggested boredom more than reverence. A group of tourists passed in the opposite direction, pink-faced and giggling. One of them pointed vaguely at the panda suit.

David didn’t acknowledge them. He kept glancing at Hugo without turning his head. Not prying — just checking. Breathing him in.

There was something else he recognised, too. A weight in the way Hugo moved — not tired from work or heat, but something deeper. Like his body was something he had to carry. Like gravity had picked on him personally.
A stray dog crossed in front of them, tail low, sniffing the air like it had somewhere to be. Hugo watched it for a moment. Then looked away.
David’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it. His wife would understand. She always did.

He looked at Hugo again. Still upright. Still silent.

He wanted to say something — anything — but nothing felt right.

He wanted to say: You don’t have to talk, but I’m here.

He wanted to say: You don’t have to go where my brother went.

But he didn’t.

He just kept walking.

The trolley rattled softly behind them. The panda head bumped along with a resigned kind of rhythm.

They passed under a string of old lights that hadn’t been turned on yet — cheap, colourful bulbs left over from some forgotten summer festival. David remembered stringing lights like that in the arcade, back in the first season. They’d flickered constantly. He’d loved the sound they made.

Everything had a sound, if you listened long enough.

And some silences were loud.

Somewhere ahead, shutters closed, lights blinked out, and the town settled into its slow, indifferent sleep.

---

The apartment complex was modern — three storeys of white stone. Tidy balconies, shutters drawn to hold out the sun. Laundry lines stretched between buildings like bunting. From the second floor, if you leaned just right, you could catch a flash of sea.

Hugo wheeled the trolley across the patio towards a row of bicycle sheds beside the stairs.

Without a word, he pushed it into one of the small trasteros — the panda suit slumped over it, unmoving.

The man beside him now was barely upright. A shadow of the figure David had seen dancing only days before.

At the base of the stairs, Hugo turned slightly. “Gracias.”

David gave a short nod. “Drink water. Seriously.”

Hugo climbed the steps unhurriedly. At the top, the door opened.

Then came his voice: “Hola.” Too loud, too bright — pitched for whoever waited behind the door. David stood motionless, listening to that cheerful note that didn’t quite fit. Like a mask slipping back on for an audience he hadn’t let David see.

He lingered a moment longer at the base of the stairs. The shutters above blinked gold in the last of the light.

He turned and started walking.

His own life wasn’t perfect. There were days he and his wife hardly spoke, or said the wrong things. But she was there. She noticed when he pulled away. Asked, gently, if he needed to talk. He didn’t always answer. But it mattered, knowing he could.

The streets had dimmed now. The shops closing. The stone cooling underfoot.

He walked slowly. Past the pharmacy. The bakery. The old bus stop where he used to wait with Mateo.

His brother had faded away. Not all at once. But bit by bit, until he was gone.

No noise. No note. Just… gone. Literally gone, he disappeared with no explanation. Some days David could almost grieve him. Other days he caught himself scanning the bus windows, half-expecting to see Mateo there — older but unchanged, ready to explain it all away.

And now Hugo — not gone, not yet. Just worn. Tilted at the edge of something. And David couldn’t watch another man tip forward without reaching out.

He stopped beneath the alley that led to his flat. Pulled out his phone.

He typed:
Let me know if you need anything tomorrow. Seriously. Anything. – D
He stared at it. Then hit send.

The light dimmed. The night settled.
Still upright.
Still here.
Still paying attention.

He pictured the chipped mug by the sink. She kept trying to replace it — three bright blue ones last Christmas, matching spoons and all. He still used the old one every night. Tonight too.

He’d go home now. Dinner would be waiting, like always.