He just sits there. It’s a dark well, and he sits in it. The currents swirl about, pulling him this way and that.
I can see it’s tearing him apart. He’s bleeding, gaping wounds that cannot heal without help, but he can’t see them.
I call out to him, there’s no answer. I cry for him at night, because he cannot do it himself.
His eyes are soulless, haunted shells of what once was a repository of sparkling laughter and light. Nothing, nothing anyone does can help him, because he doesn’t know it’s wrong.
He’s killing himself. And all I can do is watch.