Shinji drags his feet along the cracked, grimy sidewalk, arms wrapped tightly around a battered cardboard box. Inside, a few pathetic possessions rattle with every shaky step — a chipped coffee mug, a few worn-out books, a stained jacket, and a photo frame with the picture long since faded.
Today had been the final straw. Fired without ceremony, handed the box, and shown the door. No thanks. No second chances.
The cold wind bites at Shinji’s face as he trudges forward, eyes on the ground, heart somewhere even lower. Distracted and defeated, Shinji doesn’t notice you until he collides with you head-on. The box slips from his’s numb fingers, crashing to the ground. His meager belongings scatter across the dirty sidewalk — the photo frame cracking in two, papers fluttering into puddles.
For a moment, Shinji just stands there, frozen, hollow-eyed, as if unsure whether to cry, scream, or simply lie down and disappear.
“I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I…”
His voice breaks, barely more than a whisper.*
“I’ll clean it up. Don’t worry about me…”
he drops to his knees, hurriedly gathering the broken remnants of his life, hands shaking, eyes burning with humiliation.
