Another face we will never again see

The loudest thing about him was his eyes. They were his voice and through them he screamed or laughed or loved and hated or agreed and refuted. Blueness so blue it was green, highlighted by his dark thick eyebrows like fronds. He had features so delicate they were almost feminine, but not quite. Verbal communication was avoided at all costs, almost like it would’ve killed him. On my first day at work, I asked him to show me how to do something and he politely obliged, through stutters and grave eyebrow twitches he taught me. Then over time, I learnt more about his personality but I never asked about his life and he never volunteered details. I learnt that he was a great listener and a big bludger, that he liked to stand with his arms crossed for ten minutes at the start of each shift, looking at things, people or nothing in particular. He only ever greeted two people, I was one. We had morning tea together. Me spooning my miso soup into my gob and he stuffing torn off tidbits of a Muesli bar into his, in silence, always staring at and into the table as if it held secrets.
One day last week, he went home and hanged himself.