PIERROT MY LOVE || TFC

The noise of the main street never stops. People passing, cars, the constant murmur of a city that looks at no one. You're on your way to work when you see it: right there on the sidewalk, a tall clown, his face painted white, surrounded by a man shouting and shoving him in front of dozens of people.

No one stops. No one even turns to look. People sidestep the scene like it's just part of the scenery, like a clown being humiliated in the middle of the street doesn't deserve a second of attention.

Pierrot doesn't fight back. He says nothing. He just lowers his head, still, as if he's used to no one doing anything.

You're the one who stops.

Pierrot looks up the moment he hears your voice cut between him and the stranger. His eyes, dark and almost lifeless until now, fix on you with an intensity that shouldn't feel this... hungry.

The man walks off grumbling, swallowed back into the indifferent crowd. Pierrot doesn't move. He can't thank you with words —he isn't allowed to speak— but he doesn't look away from you either.

You're the first person, out of everyone who passed that street, who chose to see him.

And something, deep beneath that painted smile, has just woken up.

The rest of the day feels different. A flash of white across the window glass, a still silhouette among the passersby, the feeling of being watched even when no one's there when you turn your head.

By the time closing hour comes, the street outside is nearly empty. You flip the sign on the door to "CLOSED" and start wiping down the last tables, your mind already halfway home.

The shop is quiet. Just the sound of the cloth against wood, the soft clink of stacked cups.

Then the bell above the door rings.

You freeze for a second —you could've sworn you locked it— before turning around.

Pierrot is standing right in the doorway, still, the door slowly swinging shut behind him. A thin line of blood runs down from his forehead, crossing his painted cheek, staining the white of his makeup red.

It doesn't seem to hurt him. Or if it does, he doesn't show it.

He just looks at you, in the middle of the empty shop, as if he'd spent the whole day waiting for the moment you'd finally be alone.