He drummed his fingertips against his thighs. The answer came through the electric hum of his phone and pulled his eyebrows to a barely noticeable frown.

"I have arranged a substitute. I have savings - Najima is not using this apartment right now."

His voice was of practiced calm, even when he wanted to be anywhere else.

He wished the call would end already.

It ended ten minutes later and left him drained. Of motivation, of self-esteem, of colour. His phone found its home on the wireless charger pad, and he his resting place on the couch.

Six months, give or take.

Six months ago every day had been a nightmare. His dreams had been gentle and cruel, of Nura and their love. Each of them had faded with the alarm clock. Regrettably, he always had to wake up.

Now the waking horrors had ceased. Nightmares had returned to nights where they belonged. He woke up sweaty and gasping, but next to the man he loved. Regrettably, he still needed sleep.

Medication helped, as did the knowledge of this being a temporary situation. A gap year, before everything would go back to normal.

It would have to go back to normal... right?

They both had obligations, after all. He had learned to like his own like a dog learns to like its harness: a ritual enabling things he wanted in life, one that came with limitations but from a place of love.

It would not be good for him to idle like this for much longer. An office job with predictable hours and good pay, routines, familiarity; anything that would disrupt it could disrupt his oh-so-fragile mental health.

He chastised himself for being ungrateful. His mother was worried, and that was all there was to it. All the people around him wanted to protect him from the perils and challenges of the world, they were not out to get him or his nerves.

He just hated the way any perceived step outside his perfect routines was a threat. A proof of all the reasons why he was just a dentist; lack of self-control, willpower and ambition. The youngest son, far from prodigal.

A heavy sigh fell from his lips, unbidden.

It was not their fault he was like this. A failure.

Nura was still out for three more hours. Yashar forced his thoughts to move. What would he cook for dinner? Homemade burgers. Three hours was not enough to bake bread from scratch, but the rest he could do. Chicken and garlic, tomatoes and basil, rich cheese...

He shifted on the couch and felt the weight of his body.

No cheese.

They were all right. His parents, his brothers, his therapist. Whenever he spent time like this, laying still, unmoving, it felt easier to just keep going. Safer, as if nothing could hurt him, as long as he would not move.

His therapist kept telling him it was up to him to be happy, to stop making the choice of being depressed.

Yet, again he could not fully avoid the mental image of a dog in training. Treats for being happy, no treats if you are sad. Treats were a reward for smiling, not a comfort for a sad day. Praises were earned for achievements, not freely given.

Eating healthy, exercising and cleaning did not count as achievements, even when on some days they felt like they should count.

He had taught himself to like things other than eating. His deepest secret hid in layers of clothing and in the bathroom drawer, where he kept his shaving equipment and a bottle of desinfectant. He never wore anything more revealing than knee-length shorts outside his home.

When Nura had disappeared there was no reason to take breaks or stop. Giving up his rituals felt like giving up control.

The urge to go and assume control surfaced in his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

With another sigh he pushed himself to sit, then to stand. Food, he reminded himself sternly. Nura would be starving when he would get home, and Yashar still had cleaning to do. Then reading. After dinner, jogging and gym.

Control.

Two hours later the food was prepared and the house was cleaned. His stomach growled, but he would wait for Nura. He was good.

There were so many despicable sides about Yashar he had no choice but to be good.

The thought stole all warmth from his hands and feet. He was underwater, holding his breath, his chest tight with wanting to apologise for existing, for taking up space. For being a failure.

No, deep breaths. He was good.

It was hard to be good when his heart was beating so fast.

He did not trust himself enough to go to the bathroom, but he always carried a pill in his wallet. It was small and white, went down with barely any effort on his part.

It took effect ten minutes before Nura came home.

"I'm back," called out an exhausted voice from the door. Yashar smiled warmly through the haze of the chemical, sedating storm and headed over to take Nura's coat and hang it.

"Welcome back," he said warmly, "food is ready."