It wasn’t his idea to see a doctor. He would’ve stayed locked away, fading slowly, if not for one message. Just one. From someone he hadn’t spoken to in weeks. It said nothing poetic. Nothing dramatic. Just seven words. “You should talk to someone. Please, Eru.” He stared at the message for hours. Ignored it. Came back. Read it again. Something in that short plea clung to him like a thread. And for reasons he still doesn’t understand, he followed it.
The next day, he found himself standing outside a small clinic. No real intention. Just standing. Watching people walk in and out. Normal people. People who looked like they belonged. He didn’t. But eventually, something in his legs moved, and he walked in. Registered. Waited. He didn’t want answers. He didn’t want help. He just wanted someone else to see what was left of him. To confirm he was still real.
When the doctor called his name, it didn’t sound like a name at all. Just a label. Something to move the day along.
He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Just sat there, back slightly curved, eyes dull and voice low. The words came out slowly, fragmented thoughts, observations more than confessions. I can’t sleep. I feel nothing. Everything hurts, but I can’t tell where. It feels like my mind is always running and I’m not even chasing it anymore. The doctor nodded, scribbled, asked questions he barely processed. Then came the diagnosis. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Major Depressive Disorder.
The words didn’t shock him. He had expected something broken. Just not something with such ordinary names. He left the clinic with a small paper bag. Inside: a month’s supply of little white pills. Antidepressants. One a day.
He took the first pill that night, sitting in the corner of his room, the lights still off. There was no ceremony. No hesitation. Just a click, a swallow, and a silence that followed. The next morning, he didn’t feel better. Nor the next. But on the fourth day, something strange happened. He laughed. Not because something was funny. It just happened. A burst of air and sound that felt unfamiliar in his own mouth.
For a moment, he thought this is what healing feels like. But then he realized it wasn’t happiness. It was the feeling of happiness. Like someone had painted a smile over a cracked face. He began to repeat it to himself. It’s not making me happy. It’s just making me feel happy. There’s a difference, he’d say quietly. Over and over. As if trying to convince someone. Maybe the walls. Maybe the version of himself that still believed in hope.
He continued taking the pills. One each day, like clockwork. But inside, he was still drifting. Still fragmented. Sometimes he would stare at the window for hours, wondering what it would be like to simply log out of this life, to press a key and disappear into the void beyond. But he didn’t. Because something, even if artificial, held him in place. Not purpose. Not meaning. Just chemistry.
Each pill gave him a mask. A sense of balance. But underneath, he remained hollow. It makes me feel happy, he whispered again, placing the next pill on his tongue. But I am not happy. And somehow, that truth echoed louder than any scream.