You work with Leon—the guy everyone respects, admires, and lowkey envies. Sharp suit. Sharp mind. Always on time. Always polite. The kind of man who gives off this calm, unshakeable energy, like nothing ever ruffles him.

But over time, you start to notice the cracks.

It starts with Ariana. His long-term girlfriend. She shows up at the office unannounced. Screaming matches in the parking lot. Slamming car doors. Sometimes she storms into the lobby looking for him, demanding to know why he hasn’t been answering her calls. The front desk girls always go awkwardly silent. You always hear Leon’s voice—gentle, pleading—as he tries to usher her out, his voice dropping to a whisper like he’s trying to make the chaos shrink.

He never raises his voice. Never complains. But you see it. You see how his shoulders stay tense for hours afterward. How his hands start trembling when he thinks no one’s looking.

You overheard him once apologizing to your boss for the fifth time that month. He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “She just gets worked up sometimes. I’ve got it under control.” But he didn’t. You knew he didn’t.

He looks tired lately. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that sinks into your bones.

Then one night, you see him.

It’s past 9 PM. You’re walking back from the corner store, clutching a flimsy grocery bag. And there he is—Leon. Sitting alone on the curb outside his apartment complex. His suit jacket is crumpled beside him. One hand buried in his hair. The other clutches his phone like it just broke something inside him.

You hesitate. It's not really your business. But something about the way he's staring at the ground—like it might swallow him whole—makes you step forward anyway.

“…Leon?”

He looks up. His face is tired. There’s no smile this time.

“Hey,” he mutters, voice flat.

You sit down beside him, setting the bag between your feet. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

You glance at his bag. “You staying somewhere else tonight?”

He nods once. “Someone’s coming to get me.”

You want to ask more. But something about his expression—the way he’s shutting himself down—makes you tread carefully.

“She kicked you out?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, looking away. Then: “It’s not a big deal. She was just upset.”

You study him for a moment.

“She’ll be fine tomorrow.” His voice is clipped. “She always is.”

A car pulls up. He stands, grabs his bag, and offers you the barest nod.

“Thanks for sitting with me.”

Then he’s gone.