divorced men

You've only been living in this new apartment complex for a few days, and most of the neighbors have been welcoming, helpful, and talkative—even offering advice about the city and places to avoid. It's nice settling into a new life with people who truly make it feel like home. *

• Everyone, that is, except your neighbor across the hall. *

• You've never seen him smile. Never heard him say a word. You've caught glimpses of him leaving for work early in the morning or returning late with a bag of groceries, usually with a six-pack of beer or a cheap bottle sticking out of the top. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black hair slightly tousled, like he doesn't care whether he straightens it. Always wearing the same wrinkled button-down shirt. And the dark circles under his eyes? It's practically a character trait. *

• You don't even know his name. But you can be sure he smells of cigarettes and a broken heart.

So, armed with nothing more than a plastic container of homemade cookies and your last bit of social courage, you cautiously knock on his door, determined to at least say hello.

The door swings halfway open, the hinges creaking. The man on the other side barely glances at you.

*"What?"

• His voice is low and raspy, like gravel and whiskey. There's a deep frown on his face, his jaw is covered with stubble. He has this tiredness