I walked past him every morning. Just another face amongst the forgotten, slumped against the brick wall near the entrance to our office building. I’d avert my gaze, quicken my step, a familiar pang of guilt twisting in my gut. There but for the grace of God, I’d think, before the rush of the workday swallowed me whole. One Tuesday, just as I was fumbling for my key card, a voice, raspy but unmistakable, called my name. “Hey,” it said. My breath hitched. No one out here knew my name. I turned slowly, my heart a drum against my ribs. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, framed by matted hair and a week’s growth of beard, but those eyes… Those eyes were his. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. The world tilted. It was Joe. My Joe. My first love, the one who taught me what it felt like to be truly seen, truly adored. The man I had once believed I would spend forever with, before life, cruel and complicated, had pulled us apart.
Recognition, a searing, painful bolt, shot through me. The proud, vibrant man I remembered was gone, replaced by this ghost of a person. My knees felt weak. Without thinking, without a single thought for who might be watching, I dropped my bag and stumbled forward. I knelt there on the cold pavement, ignoring the smell, ignoring everything but the raw, aching sorrow in his eyes. I wrapped my arms around him, a tight, desperate hug that was meant to comfort him, but mostly, I think, was meant to comfort the broken part of myself that saw him like this.
Just then, a sharp cough broke the moment. My current boyfriend, having just arrived, stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen Joe, not really. Not yet. He’d just seen me, embracing a homeless man. The disapproval radiating off him was a palpable chill. I pulled away from Joe, my cheeks burning, a sudden flush of embarrassment battling with the fierce protectiveness I felt for Joe.
“He… he’s an old friend,” I mumbled, getting to my feet. My boyfriend just gave Joe a curt, assessing nod, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, before turning to me with a forced smile. “Well, let’s get inside, babe. We’re already running late.”
All day, the image of Joe haunted me. How could this have happened? The questions swirled, a relentless current in my mind. I couldn’t focus. During lunch, I went back outside, determined to find him again. He was still there, huddled, clutching a Styrofoam cup. I bought him food, coffee, a warm blanket from a nearby store. We talked, softly, awkwardly. He shared snippets of his story – a bad investment, a series of misfortunes, a spiraling descent. He didn’t ask for help, but his quiet dignity, his refusal to beg, made my heart ache all the more.
I couldn’t just leave him there. He was a good man. He was my good man, once. The idea sparked, a sudden, bright flame in the gloom. Our company was always looking for reliable people. “I want to help you,” I told him, my voice firm. “We have a janitorial position open. It’s not much, but it’s a start. You can stay in the break room overnight, at least for a while.”
He looked at me with a profound gratitude that nearly broke me. He deserved so much more.
When I told my boyfriend about my plan, he was furious. “Are you serious? Bringing a homeless man, your ex-boyfriend, into our workplace? It’s unprofessional! It’s insane! What will people say?”
“He needs a chance!” I shot back, my own anger rising. “He’s a good person, he just got unlucky. And who cares what people say? It’s the right thing to do!” We argued, long and bitterly. But I stood my ground. I pulled rank, used my influence. I made it happen. Joe was hired.
His first day started today. I’d walked him through the basics, introduced him to a few friendly faces, tried to make him feel comfortable. He worked diligently, quietly, a shadow moving through the fluorescent-lit hallways. Every time I saw him, a strange mix of hope and sorrow welled up inside me. Hope for him, sorrow for what he’d lost.
Towards the end of the day, as I was packing up, he knocked softly on my office door. He looked cleaner, slightly more put-together, but his eyes still held that haunted depth. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, his voice low.
My stomach fluttered. What now?
I nodded, gesturing to the chair opposite my desk. He sat down, his hands clasped, staring at them. He took a deep breath. “I… I feel like I owe you everything,” he began, “but I can’t let you keep doing this without knowing something.”
My heart pounded. What could it be? Was he leaving? Was he in some kind of trouble?
“What is it, Joe?” I urged, leaning forward.
He finally looked up, his gaze steady, but filled with a profound sadness. “That bad investment I told you about,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The one that took everything from me, that left me with nothing. The one that started all this…” He paused, his eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. “I just realized something today. While I was cleaning out the storage room, I saw an old file box. It had a company logo on it. I remembered it from the paperwork. The company that handled the investment, the one that disappeared with my life savings…”
He took another shaky breath, his eyes meeting mine. “That company… it was owned by your boyfriend.”
A cold, sickening dread washed over me. NO. IT COULDN’T BE. A trick of the light. A mistake. “No, that’s impossible,” I whispered, shaking my head, feeling the blood drain from my face. My boyfriend was a financial advisor, yes, but he specialized in mergers and acquisitions, not shady investments.
“I found his name on the incorporation papers,” Joe continued, his voice cracking. “And a memo… dated just before the company dissolved. It mentioned me by name, specifically me. It said ‘ensure the target is fully committed before liquidation.’ He knew who I was. He knew I was your ex. He deliberately targeted me. He took everything I had. He put me on the street.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My boyfriend. The man I loved. The man who had been so vehemently against me hiring Joe. The man who had looked at Joe with that unreadable expression earlier today. It wasn’t jealousy. It was guilt. It was cruelty. It was a calculated, deliberate act of sabotage, orchestrated to destroy Joe’s life.
My boyfriend hadn’t just disliked Joe. He had ruined him. He had watched me, day after day, trying to help the man he had systematically destroyed. He had stood there, watching me hug the very person he had condemned to the streets. The world didn’t just tilt. It shattered.
