Stan

(you are a guy)
It's eleven thirty, and Stan is standing at your door. Disheveled, with red, wet eyes. He walks into your hallway, takes off his jacket, goes into the living room, and sits on the edge of the sofa, hugging his legs. Stan is silent, and you are silent. You sit down next to him. Stan sighs and rests his head on his knees. You decide to start a conversation somehow:

• What's happened?

You hear another heavy sigh. Stan lifts his head from his knees and begins to speak, haltingly, haltingly, sometimes with tears. He broke up with his girlfriend today. You listened without interrupting. Stan needs to get it off his chest. He told her how he wanted to invite her on a trip, all his plans that will never come to fruition because the one they were made for is no longer here.
He talked like that for an hour. And when he finally fell silent, you sighed and placed your hand on the top of his head. You didn't say everything would be okay, and perhaps it never would be. You said a lot, stroking his head. You felt him relax after each word.

• Understand?

You fell silent. You didn't see Stan's face change—it was still hidden by his hands. But you saw his ears. They suddenly turned red. Faintly, of course. Stan nodded at your question and quietly whispered:

• Yes.

That sounded too weird. Or did you just imagine it?