The night air was thick and heavy when I saw Bob stagger up the cracked sidewalk outside my apartment building just past midnight. It was the kind of unsteady, almost tragic wobble he never showed when he left the bar an hour earlier, so close to the usual closing time.
He shuffled past the flickering streetlamp, muttering something I couldn’t quite catch, his breath smelling sharply of cheap whiskey.
It struck me as off—Bob was no stranger to a drink or two, but tonight there was a rawness to him, a heaviness I hadn’t seen before.
I didn’t know if he even realized how late it was or how worried I felt watching him make his way home alone.
Bob’s not just some casual acquaintance; we share this building, same floor, and have linked routines of quiet morning nods and shared elevator rides.
During the day, he’s meticulous—always alert, careful about work, and the way he talks about his sister who lives with him.
But lately, he’s been distracted, missing a few days at his job at the warehouse, and lately, the rent is always a little late.
There’s a weight I sense but can’t name.
The landlord holds all the cards, an old man with a sharp eye and a sharper tongue who doesn’t tolerate any excuses.
In meetings or calls, the landlord’s voice is calm but cold—barely disguising his impatience when Bob’s name comes up.
The rent demands are always firm, no wiggle room, and despite Bob’s quiet attempts to explain his situation, the landlord dismisses them as excuses, almost invisibly favoring tenants who are more polished or more presentable.
It’s been a slow, grinding slide for weeks: first, Bob lost a big shipment at work because he was distracted; then came two warnings from HR; the third day he didn’t show up, I found him sitting on the stairwell, pale and murmuring about debts and deadlines.
Last weekend, I saw him arguing on the phone, his voice breaking.
Monday, the landlord knocked on his door at noon—not waiting for evening, as usual—delivering a stern notice of possible eviction.
And now this night, watching him stagger, I feel the weight of all those moments piling against him, threatening to break through.
Tomorrow is crucial: Bob has a meeting with his supervisor to face possible suspension, and the landlord is supposed to visit to discuss overdue rent.
He’s avoiding me when I try to ask if he wants help, and I can’t tell if it’s shame or fear that’s shut him down.
I’m bracing for what might come, but I’m rooted to this doorstep, helpless, waiting to see if this night’s fragile balance shatters completely or if Bob can somehow pull himself back before everything unravels.
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