I don't think I'd ever seen a man look so dejected. Filling his pipe absent-mindedly, to have something to with his hands as much as anything, Gandalf refused to meet my gaze. For my part, I looked past him at the fridge door, my mind organising a thousand pointless thoughts at lightspeed. After a lifetime, I took another drink and tried to sum up in words, emotions that I couldn't even comprehend.
"I'm... sorry." I stumbled, as if he didn't know that. As if all I needed to do was apologise to make everything better.
I drained my glass, and poured myself another. Cliches. That's all we can think of, when we really need to express our own thoughts. Another lifetime passed in a matter of seconds, and Gandalf finally looked me in the eye.
"It's not you, it's me" I began. "I just don't believe in magic any more."
In the morning, he packed his things into three cardboard boxes. He spoke to me once, asking for the sellotape. We agreed to divide up the hobbits later, when he'd found somewhere to stay. He left in the evening, to stay in a B&B nearby.
I haven't seen him since, but still look at dawn to the East.