Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
BEFORE
It was one of those badly lit places—white walls, plastic flowers. It looked nice from afar, but if you stared too long, the cracks started to show.
I guess that was fitting.
“Noah Rossi?” The receptionist’s eyes stayed fixed on her phone. She didn’t even glance up to check if I’d stood. A sad little Christmas tree slouched on her desk, making the whole thing feel a thousand times more depressing.
“Hey, that’s me,” I said after she failed to acknowledge me.
Her gaze finally lifted, but it felt like she was looking through me, not at me. “The doctor will see you now. First door on your right.”
I wiped my hands on my pants and stepped in that direction. My chest felt heavy—nothing new there. That familiar weight had settled in and made itself at home. At night, it gnawed at me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt rested.
Something had to give.
I’d handled everything with my mother—maybe a month ago? Everything was squared away. Financially, at least. Emotionally…not so much.
The guilt from our fight had eaten through me.
After a million texts accusing me of abandoning her, I caved.
Plus, the holidays were coming. We weren’t supposed to be alone during the holidays.
We started talking again—but only when necessary.
The lawyers explained why she couldn’t sue her own son, and once the allowance kicked in and her new apartment remained untouched, she calmed down.
A little.
Somehow, that didn’t help. Not in my head. If anything, each day got worse.
Then came last night. She called, asked for more money. I refused. She hung up.
More guilt.
All through my dad’s illness, I’d believed that moment—when he passed—would be the worst. Nothing could hurt more than that.
How na?ve was I?
As time crept on, what I’d thought was pain turned out to be mostly shock. The real grief had seeped in long before he’d died, and kept growing, second by second, until it was impossible to ignore. Impossible to breathe.
Blow helped.
At first, it just made everything easier. I needed a distraction—and then I needed to be part of the distraction. I couldn’t keep showing up to parties and staring at the walls like a ghost. I had to be fun. Or at least seem human.
It helped.
At first…
Then it got harder. I needed more. More endorphins. More charm. More interesting things to talk about. I couldn’t just be the guy whose dad died and whose mom tore him down. I had to become someone else.
Only when I was home alone could I be that guy again.
The sad guy.
The worthless guy.
I’d spent so much time crying under the shower, sitting on the cold tiled floor, I stopped keeping track of time.
I knocked on the door.
A voice called me in. We went through the introductions and the niceties. The couch creaked when I sat. It felt cold, even through the fabric of my pants.
“So, Noah. What brings you here?”
Hell of an opening line.
“Well, my dad died a couple of months ago. Cancer. I haven’t been doing too well.”
His eyes stayed on his tablet. “What’s ‘not well’?”
“I haven’t been sleeping. I’m sad, which I guess is normal.
I’m just not sure it’s normal to feel this sad.
I’m having a hard time getting out of bed.
It’s like my body forgets how. Everything feels heavier, and my brain doesn’t send the right signals.
I’m not sure if I’ve actually lived through the hours—they just pass.
And I’m crying all the time. Not loudly,” I added, pausing to lick my lips.
The dull tapping of his fingers on the screen filled the silence.
“They just fall, nonstop. The tears. And I have this feeling—”
I stopped, waiting for him to at least glance up. I’d been to therapy before. They usually looked at you.
“Yes,” he prompted, eyes unmoving.
I rubbed a hand across my chest. “It’s like there’s pressure on my heart. Like when you’ve really fucked up. Except I’m not sure what I did wrong. There are probably a hundred things, but I can’t pinpoint one. And it’s always there. Sometimes it gets so heavy I forget how to breathe.”
He nodded slowly. “Have you lost weight?”
I frowned. “I think so. I’m not really hungry.” I sniffled, pinching my nose. My leg started to bounce, and I pressed my palm against it.
“Sleeping?”
“Um, no… I haven’t been sleeping,” I repeated.
Another nod.
“Have you been self-medicating?”
My stomach tightened. “Like sleeping pills? No.”
“How about alcohol? Narcotics?”
The way his fingers hovered over the screen, waiting to type, threw me off. Like he was just checking a box.
“No,” I lied.
The burn from the vodka I’d downed in the elevator was still fresh in my throat. But I guessed I was sober enough. For now. I thought for a second about mentioning the coke. Maybe he could help.
Help with what? It’s not a problem. That shit’s just for fun.
“How’s your mood?”
“My mood?”
“Yes.”
I stared, half expecting him to crack a joke. That question deserved one.
When he didn’t, I said, “Not great.”
“How about mood swings? Feelings of intense euphoria followed by a crash?” He waved his hand in vague emphasis. His eyes flicked up briefly—just long enough to mimic attention. His receptionist must’ve learned it from him.
“No euphoria.” At least not the natural kind.
“Have you felt like this before your father’s death? Anything similar?”
“Not like this. I’ve felt sad before. Heavy and—”
He tapped his tablet again, waiting.
“Alone, I guess. Yeah, I’ve felt that before. But never like this. This time, it’s got me paralyzed. I think I might need help, but I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I need to know if this is okay.”
Still no real response—just more tapping. “Anything else?”
A million things.
“My relationship with my mother isn’t great,” I said, even though I’d already lost faith in this session doing anything at all. I wasn’t even sure he heard me.
Finally, he pushed his glasses up his nose and looked up. “Your symptoms are consistent with low mood, anhedonia, disrupted sleep, and likely some anxiety-related features.”
My brain stalled. “I—what does that mean?”
His expression remained impassive. “You’re experiencing a major depressive episode. It’s not uncommon for someone your age. Especially given the circumstances.”
The circumstances. That’s a nice way to put it.
He tapped a few more times, and the printer on the desk screeched to life. Reaching behind him, he handed me a piece of paper. “This will help stabilize your mood and regulate your sleep. Start with one of each at night and follow up in three weeks.”
I stared at the prescription, then back at him. “So that’s it?”
A tight smile. “If symptoms persist or worsen, we’ll consider adjusting the dose. Therapy might help, too, if you’re open to it.”
Silly me. I thought that was what this was.
“Okay, thanks.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept tapping.
I walked out, and the lovely receptionist gave me the pharmacy’s address.
Just a block away. I went there in a daze, still wondering if this was going to help—or if I needed something more.
Before I handed the paper to the pharmacist, one line caught my eye.
I read it once. Then again. Then a third time.
Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Severe Without Psychotic Features
I stared at it. The words blurred the more I read them.
Severe. Recurring.
Without psychotic features? Was that supposed to be comforting?
And I had barely told him about my dad. I’d only mentioned my mom—none of the baggage that came with her. How the hell had he gotten all of this out of that? I knew this had been hard on me, but was it something more—something he could see that easily? A label?
Was this who I was? Who I had always been? The reason why everything felt so hard, why it all ached—why things lingered, not just for moments but forever in my brain, running rampant in there, never letting me forget how much something hurt?
Is this why she thought I was weak?
Why my dad didn’t trust me?
Did everyone know?
I searched for the names on the prescription on my phone. One was an antidepressant. The other, sleeping pills.
“Let me get those for you,” the girl behind the counter said, hand outstretched.
I blinked a few times, then handed it over. Less than a minute later, I walked out with two bottles and a head full of questions.
This had been my last resort. I hadn’t wanted to come here. But a quiet voice in the back of my mind kept whispering, It’s this or nothing. Both options terrified me. One was starting to sound like relief.
Major depressive disorder.
Severe.
Possibly recurring.
Was I ever going to stop feeling like this?
Maybe this was it. Maybe my life only came in two flavors now—numb or broken.
Sounds like fun.
I walked home. Dropped the bottles and keys on the counter by the kitchen. The apartment was still empty.
My mom had tried convincing me to hire someone to decorate it. After the whole apartment fiasco, I’d shut that idea down fast and kept what I started with—a bed and a couch. What more did I need?
My back slid down the wall. I dropped to the floor and stared blankly at the space in front of me. Everything felt hollow. Not sad—just vacant.
I reached for the medallion around my neck. A tear slipped free, silent the way they usually were. I leaned my forehead against my knee and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing against the wave of emotion that always came crashing down when I was alone.
Why did you have to die?
What the fuck is the point of all this?
Why am I doing this?
Holly had been calling me nonstop, even though I rarely answered. I could call her back, but then what? What would I even say?
All I do is take, take, take.
Maybe that’s what my dad thought too. Maybe that’s what she meant when she said the transfer wasn’t about me—that it was just a buy-off. A bribe to keep me here.
I didn’t care about the fucking money. I never did. I just wanted time. Was that so unreasonable?