Everyone sees him. During the day he walks with his head held low, staring at the ground. Hardly ever does he make any eye contact. They see the pain that he’s in. They are well aware of what he’s going through.
“Are you okay?”
“Do you need any help?”
“Would you want to talk about it?”
These are the things he needs to hear. But no one says them.
Instead they think, he’s probably fine.
He’s probably faking it for attention.
Someone else is helping him.
I don’t have enough time to do anything about it.
It’s his problem, he can work it out.
But, what they don’t know is he can feel their eyes burning holes into his back. They can visibly see the rips and tears in his skin, but if you’d take a look closer you could see the tears in his mind. The tears that swallow him whole at night.
But they don’t care. They think to themselves, I’ve got my own life to worry about. So they leave him. They leave him alone every night with the tears in his mind for himself, his battered dusty soul, to deal with.