He sits in the circle, back too straight,
name tag blank, eyes like slate.
Doesn’t flinch when the stories spill,
just breathes real slow, then slower still.
We take our turns with trembling shame,
he never speaks. Never says his name.
Just stares through us like he’s not quite real,
like a memory someone forgot to feel.
The counselor coughs and skips his turn,
we all pretend not to crash and burn.
But the lights dim more when he’s around,
and the shadows cling to the floor like sound.
The quiet one in group therapy,
holds his silence like a rosary.
No scars, no files, no sign of pain–
but his stillness hums like acid rain.
I tried to ask him what he sees,
but my voice went cold like winter knees.
He turned his head like a broken hinge,
and smiled the way an old room cringes.
The nurses say they’ve never met
the one in black who doesn’t sweat.
And when they checked the sign-in sheet–
his name was there, but incomplete.
He doesn’t speak, but somehow knows
which of us cries when the hallway glows.
I saw him once in the mirror’s bend–
whispering truths I’ll never mend.
Today he stood when I broke down,
tipped his head like he wore a crown.
And when I looked where he had been–
there was a chair. And dust. And wind.