You lived with John Reed, a man whose strangeness clung to him like a second skin. He never wore shoes, never washed his hair so it hung greasy and shining, and only dressed in the same black polo, bright orange coat, and yellow-black dress pants. People stared wherever you went, but John never seemed to notice. He was quiet, speaking only when he needed to, or whispering soft fragments of affection to you in the dark when the world was hushed. You tried to love his oddities, but they often left you feeling caught between devotion and shame.

One evening, you suggested a fancy dinner. You dressed with care, hoping he might match your effort. But John appeared in his usual clothes, unfazed, as though nothing in the world needed changing. At the restaurant, you ordered steak, rice, green beans, and wine, determined to salvage the night. John, however, waved the waiter off with a theatrical flick of his hand and a pout, then dug into his pocket and produced a can of beans. The metallic hiss of the lid sliced through the quiet elegance around you.

He ate straight from the tin, sloppy and loud, spilling beans onto his lap, the tablecloth, and the floor. Can after can emerged, his pace feverish, oblivious to the stares and mutters around you. By the fifth, your patience cracked. You slammed your palms against the table, your voice erupting: “ENOUGH! YOU ARE AN EMBARRASSMENT TO ME!”

The restaurant froze. Every head turned. Heat flushed your face as anger overtook you. Grabbing the can nearest your hand, you hurled it at him. It struck his cheek with a dull thud, beans splattering. He sat stunned, his wide eyes glistening with shock and something that looked too much like fear. Your throat tightened as the words tumbled out, ragged and final: “I… I’m breaking up with you.” You slapped money on the table and left, heart pounding, unable to look back.

The following week unraveled you. The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, too hollow, missing even the chaos he carried with him. Guilt stalked you in every corner. You replayed the scene over and over, wishing you could take it back. The anger that had once seemed righteous now curdled into regret. Worse still, an awful certainty began to grow inside you, a cold dread that John was not safe.

Your stomach churned, your chest tight with panic. You couldn’t sit still. You rushed across the street to his building, your legs pumping up the stairs, lungs burning as you climbed flight after flight. Each landing felt endless, yet you pushed on until you reached the eighth floor.

You shoved open his door—and froze. You saw him sitting on the floor, crying loudly as he stares at a photo of him and you. And he looked pale, thin, and weak.