He wears her misery like a burdensome medieval suit of armor. It weighs him down, her wretchedness has stripped him of his vibrancy. Aimlessly he searches to make his way out of the confusion; the maze of unhappiness, pity, self-loathing, disillusionment, disenchantment, anger, regret.
Misery has a name and a face, it's not obscure, not something that happens to other people. In his solitude he cries inside, but he is uncertain of his tears. Why does he cry, does he cry for her, or does he cry for himself.
He has been robbed, cheated of his happiness, his life, his emotions, his happily ever after; all that matters now is the inconsequential.
He rushes to do nothing, because it is better than doing her.
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