Wouldnt It Be — Good - Nik Kershaw

The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and something sharp—like ozone. But as he moved through the marble foyer, the "perfect" life began to fray.

"You look like you sleep," Alistair said, his voice a gravelly wreck. "I haven't slept in three weeks. They’re taking the company. They’re taking the house. And she’s already gone." Wouldnt It Be Good - Nik Kershaw

He looked back up at the penthouse. It still glowed. It still looked perfect. But as he turned toward his own dim attic, he adjusted his scarf and started to walk. The shoes were still worn, and the pockets were still empty, but for the first time, he didn't mind the weight of his own feet. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and something

Julian looked at the man he had envied for months. He realized that while he was looking up, wishing for the shoes, the man wearing them was looking down, wishing for the escape of being nobody. "I haven't slept in three weeks

In Julian’s mind, if he could just step into that penthouse, his problems—the mounting debt, the crushing loneliness, the feeling of being invisible—would evaporate. He imagined that the man in the penthouse, a sharp-jawed aristocrat named Alistair, never felt the biting chill of a drafty room or the hollow ache of an empty stomach.

Alistair looked up and saw Julian. He didn’t scream. He didn't call the police. He just looked at Julian’s cheap, damp coat and his worn-out shoes.