The gun was still in the kitchen drawer.

He tried not to think about it—tried to push it from his mind—but it lingered there, like a dark cloud on the edge of his thoughts. He knew it wasn't over. The emotions that had overwhelmed him hadn't magically disappeared just because Sam had shown up. They were still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the next quiet moment to rear their ugly heads.

Ethan rolled over and checked his phone, more out of habit than hope. Two missed texts from Sam. He hadn't replied to any of them. The first one had come the day after their conversation:

He hadn't known how to answer that, so he hadn't answered at all.

The second text had come late last night:

Drinks. Company. The idea of being around people made Ethan's stomach turn. But then again, maybe that was what Sam wanted. Maybe that's why he kept reaching out—because he could see how much Ethan was drowning in his isolation.

Ethan tossed the phone back onto the bed and sat up, running a hand through his hair. His body ached, not from anything physical, but from the constant tension that lived inside him. It was always there, making every muscle feel tight, like he was bracing for something. What exactly, he didn't know.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, feeling the stiffness in his joints as he stretched. He walked over to the window, pulling the blinds open just enough to let the light stream in fully. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue, the kind of day that most people would call perfect.

It didn't feel perfect to him.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the world outside. People were walking down the street, heading to work, living their lives. It felt distant, like he was watching it all through a thick pane of glass—there, but untouchable. His world was smaller now. Constricted.

With a sigh, Ethan turned away from the window and headed to the kitchen. The whiskey bottle was still there, sitting on the counter where he'd left it. He hadn't touched it since that night, but it seemed to be watching him, silently offering its numb comfort.

Ignoring the bottle, he opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of milk, taking a swig directly from it. He hadn't been eating much lately—another thing that was becoming all too familiar. Food tasted like ash most days, and even the effort of making a simple meal felt monumental.

His eyes flicked to the drawer.

He closed the fridge door and forced himself to focus on the present, on the here and now. His therapist had told him once that it was all about small steps—about making choices that kept him grounded. But what she didn't understand was how impossible those small steps felt when everything inside him was screaming to just stop.

Sitting at the small kitchen table, Ethan stared at his hands, his fingers twitching involuntarily. His mind wandered back to Sam. The surprise in his voice when he'd told Ethan about the pregnancy, about the wedding. It had felt like another world, like Sam was living in a universe where things were moving forward, where life was happening. Meanwhile, Ethan was stuck in the past, in the same old nightmares that replayed on a loop.

Sam's words echoed in his head.

The invitation had been unexpected. Sam could have easily left him out of it, spared him the awkwardness of deciding whether or not to show up. But he hadn't. And that meant something. Ethan knew that much.

But still, the idea of going to a wedding—of sitting there, surrounded by happiness and love—felt impossible. What did he know about love anymore? About connection? Those things felt like distant memories, things that had been stripped from him a long time ago. The idea of smiling, of pretending to be okay, was exhausting just to think about.

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble that had grown in again. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he did need to be around people again, to stop hiding away in this apartment like a ghost. But the fear of being seen—really seen—was almost paralyzing.

Ethan's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, expecting another message from Sam, but it wasn't. It was from a number he didn't recognize.

He stared at the message, feeling a pang of guilt. He had completely forgotten about the therapy session. Not that it would have made much of a difference. Therapy felt like running in circles most days, talking about the same problems without any real solutions. But still, he had promised himself he'd go, if only to keep from slipping further into the darkness.

Ethan typed out a quick reply, saying he'd call later to reschedule, even though he wasn't sure if he actually would.

As he put the phone down, another thought crept into his mind. He hadn't touched his sketchbook in weeks. It was sitting on the desk in the corner, half-hidden beneath a pile of papers. Once, drawing had been a lifeline for him—an outlet for the chaos in his head. But lately, even that had felt impossible. The blank pages seemed like they were mocking him, daring him to try to create something when all he felt was emptiness.

But maybe it was time to try again.

He pushed himself up from the table and walked over to the desk, grabbing the sketchbook. The paper felt cold beneath his fingers as he flipped it open to a blank page. He picked up a pencil and stared at the empty space, willing something—anything—to come to him.

His hand hovered over the page, but the pencil didn't move. His mind was a fog, too thick to see through. He let out a frustrated sigh and threw the pencil down, the sound of it clattering against the desk loud in the quiet room.

Ethan dropped into the chair, rubbing his temples. His head ached, his thoughts swirling. He couldn't do this.

Not today. Maybe not ever.

The thought of Sam popped back into his mind. He imagined the smile on Sam's face when he talked about the wedding, about his fiancée. Sam was moving forward. Sam was building a life.

And what was Ethan doing?

He was sitting here, in this empty apartment, surrounded by the ghosts of a life he could barely remember.

The lump in his throat returned, but this time, he forced it down. He wouldn't cry again. Not today.

Instead, he closed the sketchbook, stood up, and walked back to the window. The world outside was still there, still moving, still going on without him.

He didn't know what his next step was. He didn't know how to get out of this hole he'd fallen into. But maybe, just maybe, there was a chance—however small—that he could find his way out.