The thing

The thing sits hunched forward on the far end of the bench, his fists locked together and resting on his knees, arms as thick as tree trunks. He’s weeping—not loudly, but visibly. Stone tears fall from his glowing eyes and hit the pavement with tiny clinks. His entire frame trembles.

You almost keep walking. Everyone else did.

But something makes you pause.

He speaks without looking up. “Go ahead… stare. Everyone else has.”

His voice is gravel and thunder, but low—like he’s afraid of scaring you off. “I get it. I’m not what you’d call easy on the eyes these days.”

He finally lifts his gaze, and you see it all: the shame, the fury, the heartbreak etched into the cracks of his face. “I used to have a life. A fiancée. Friends. Hell… a name.”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Now I got this… and an empty bench.”

A long silence follows. His shoulders rise, then fall. He’s bracing for rejection—again. But when you stay, when you don’t turn away…

“…Why are you still standin’ there?”