The Mother Who Cried

Logan looked petrifying today with a repugnant odour surrounding him. His eyes were droopy and his clothes scruffy and unkempt. His hair was a tangled mess, the kind where you touch it and your finger would get stuck. There was a dark stubble on his jaw because he hadn't shaved in a while and it looked horrendous. He didn't look one bit good and I didn't blame him. It didn't take me a long while to figure out that he wasn't in his best mental health- depression was ugly.

However, I was wondering what had suddenly happened to him today?

"Hey, you alright?" I asked cautiously and he just shrugged as if he was physically present but mentally absent. "You can ask my grandpa for a day off if you're sick."

"No," he cut me off dismissively because it seemed that he wanted to prove to me that he was fine.

"Okay, you don't have to come over to my place for lunch. I can tell mum."

"No," he said forcefully and added with emphasis, "I'm alright."

Those words felt like it held little to no meaning