Jenga

He knew this was going to hurt eventually. That it would collapse on itself, someway.

It was a warmth he needed - to be among people. He didn't really get these people or understand them. Theirs was an inpenetrable world. They were all inpenetrable worlds! For too long, he'd interred a self-assurance that he needed nothing but his own wit and will. For too long, he ignored the life line and soft place - the woman he thought would always be there - and never made the connection that his confidence, security, bravery and risk-taking relied so much outside his wit and will: it relied so much on his knowing, deep down, that he would be loved at the end of the day. That she would be the warm body he lay next to at night and reassure him that if nothing else, he was not alone. When she changed; when she was able to relocate so readily, she took his foundation with her. So he just wanted to be among people. Being alone brought him to look at his mistake. Occasionally, he would try and see it for what it is: long in the tooth, friendless and alone, a shell of a man moving forward with the momentum of a bad habit and the occasional relief of a deep sleep. But he didn't want to accept it.

So he tried to be with people. Even if he didn't understand them.

He tried too hard. They knew he tried too hard, and they hated him for it.