The following morning, I found Bob sitting on the steps outside, his head in his hands. It was early, the sun barely cresting over the horizon, casting long shadows across the street.
He looked up as I approached, his face drawn and weary.
“Hey,” I said softly, sitting down beside him. “How did it go yesterday?”
He shrugged, the motion listless.
“Not great,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair.
“What happened?”
He hesitated, then sighed. “They suspended me. Said I needed to get my act together.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of his words settling between us.
“And the landlord?” I asked, knowing it was another looming challenge.
Bob shook his head. “He’s not budging. Wants the rent by the end of the week or…”
His voice trailed off, but I understood the unspoken threat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I knew the words were inadequate.
“Yeah,” he replied, his tone flat.
I wished I had more to offer, a solution or a way to ease his burden, but I was as lost as he was.
As we sat there, the city slowly waking around us, I felt the weight of helplessness settle in.
Bob was caught in a cycle that seemed impossible to break, and I could only stand by, hoping for a change.
“If you need anything,” I started, but Bob cut me off with a nod.
“I know,” he said, and somehow, that simple acknowledgment felt like a small step, a crack in the wall of his isolation.
We lingered there for a while longer, the silence between us both comforting and heavy.
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