Content Warning:

This chapter contains themes that may be sensitive or triggering for some readers, including discussions of mental health struggles, depression, and suicide. These topics are handled with care, but they may resonate deeply with those who have experienced similar feelings. Please proceed with caution and take care of yourself as you read.

If you are struggling with any of these issues, I encourage you to reach out to someone you trust or seek professional support. Remember, you don't have to face it alone.

Your well-being is important. Please prioritize your mental health.

Ethan stood at the window, watching the raindrops trickle down the glass in erratic paths, like veins that spread across the surface. 

The storm had come quickly, catching the city off-guard in the early evening. The sky was still streaked with faint remnants of daylight, but the dark clouds blotted them out, turning everything into a muted gray. It matched the weight in his chest—heavy, dull, and unrelenting.

He hadn't moved from the window for over an hour. In the reflection of the glass, he could barely make out his own features—just a vague outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man with short, unkempt hair. His face, once familiar, now seemed foreign to him. The dark circles under his eyes and the permanent furrow in his brow made him look older than his thirty-four years. He let out a slow breath, one that felt like it had been trapped in his lungs for too long.

It was quiet in the apartment. Too quiet. Just the way he liked it—or at least, the way he'd convinced himself he preferred it. He hated noise. It made his mind race, brought back memories that he fought so hard to bury. But in the stillness, his thoughts had space to fester, to grow into something far more dangerous. A cruel paradox.

The storm outside was getting worse. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that made the glass in the windows vibrate slightly. For a moment, he thought about closing the curtains, but what was the point?

The rain, the thunder—it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present. Otherwise, he might disappear again, lose himself in the abyss that always seemed to wait just behind his eyelids.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble that had accumulated over the last few days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved. It didn't matter, though. Not really. The days all blurred together now—another consequence of the isolation he'd imposed on himself.

Every morning was the same as the last. He'd wake up, feeling that familiar weight in his chest, and he'd go through the motions of existing. Coffee. Silence. The occasional attempt at reading or watching something on TV, though nothing ever held his attention for long. Then he'd sit by the window, like he was now, and let the hours slip away.

Today was different, though. There was a decision to be made. A decision he'd been putting off for weeks. It had started as a small, nagging thought at the back of his mind, but it had grown louder with each passing day, until now it was almost deafening.

Ethan turned away from the window, his eyes drifting across the sparse apartment. It wasn't much—a single bedroom, a bathroom, and a small living area. The walls were bare, save for a few cracks that spidered across the plaster, and the furniture was minimal, chosen more for function than comfort. There was a small desk in the corner, cluttered with old sketchbooks and loose papers, but it hadn't been touched in months.

His gaze finally settled on the kitchen counter, where a bottle of whiskey and a half-empty glass sat waiting. He'd never been much of a drinker—at least, not until recently. The whiskey burned going down, but it numbed the edges of the darkness that always seemed to be creeping closer. He reached for the bottle, hesitating for just a second before pouring himself another glass.

'This is the last one', he told himself. 'After this, I'll stop.' He'd been telling himself that for days, maybe even weeks, but the promise always rang hollow.

As he lifted the glass to his lips, a thought slithered into his mind, uninvited and unwanted. 

'What if this was the last one?'

His hand froze halfway to his mouth. He didn't need to finish the thought. It had been lingering there for too long, patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it. The weight in his chest grew heavier, suffocating. He set the glass down without drinking, his hand trembling slightly.

He knew exactly what that thought meant. It wasn't the first time it had crossed his mind, but lately, it had become harder to ignore. It wasn't about the whiskey. It wasn't even about the apartment, or the loneliness, or the rain. It was about everything. The years of wear and tear on his mind and soul. The scars that weren't visible to anyone but him.

He couldn't keep living like this. Not anymore.

Ethan took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath quickened as the room seemed to close in around him. He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself, but the panic kept rising, like a tide he couldn't hold back. He pressed his back against the wall, his mind racing.

'I can't do this anymore.'

He had tried. God, he had tried so hard. Therapy. Medications. Art. Anything to stop the relentless assault of memories and guilt that haunted him. But nothing worked. Every morning, he woke up with that same crushing weight in his chest, and every night, he fell asleep wondering if it would be easier not to wake up at all.

It wasn't that he wanted to die. Not exactly. But he couldn't see a way out anymore. He couldn't see a future where things got better, where he wasn't drowning every single day.

The gun was hidden in the drawer beside him. The one thing he wasn't supposed to have, something he'd carried with him from his military days. He'd brought it back illegally, stashed away in the depths of his belongings, never intending to use it again. But tonight, it was different.

His breaths came faster as he slowly reached for the drawer. The cold metal of the handle felt like an anchor, pulling him deeper into the abyss that had swallowed him whole. He hesitated for a second, his fingers trembling. But then, with a quiet exhale, he pulled the drawer open.

The gun sat there, stark and metallic against the wooden interior. It was heavier than he remembered, almost as if the years had added weight to it, burdened by the memories it carried. Memories he had worked so hard to bury but could never seem to forget.

He didn't know why he still had it. He wasn't supposed to have any firearms—not after everything that had happened. Not after the breakdowns, the medications, the therapy that had felt like an endless loop of progress and relapse. He was meant to be stable now, in control. But in the quiet of his empty apartment, it was easy to lose sight of that. It was easy to give in to the despair.

He picked up the gun, his hand unsteady as he held it in front of him. The cold metal felt alien against his skin, like something that belonged to another life, another version of himself. Yet it was still familiar, in the worst possible way.

'This is it', he thought. 'This is the only way out.'

His heart pounded in his chest, so loud that he could barely hear the rain anymore. His vision narrowed, focused entirely on the weight in his hand. The barrel of the gun felt impossibly heavy as he lifted it slowly, his mind racing, fighting against the tidal wave of emotions that threatened to consume him.

Everything had led to this moment—the months of isolation, the nightmares that tore him awake at night, the memories of a life he couldn't escape. It was all too much. Too heavy. Too loud. He had tried to survive. He had tried to live. But what was the point when every day felt like drowning?

He pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple, his breath ragged. His hand trembled, his finger hovering over the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would make it easier, as if not seeing would make the pain stop.

The silence in the apartment was deafening. For a moment, he thought he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, the steady thump-thump-thump that reminded him he was still alive. But that only made it worse. He didn't want to be alive. Not like this.

His finger tightened around the trigger.

And then, suddenly, a noise. A sharp knock on the door.

Ethan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The knock came again, louder this time, more insistent. It was enough to pull him out of the fog for a brief second, enough to remind him that there was still a world outside this apartment. A world that wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

His grip on the gun loosened slightly, though it still rested against his head. He turned his gaze toward the door, half-expecting the knock to be some kind of hallucination, a figment of his fractured mind. But the knock came again, more forceful now.

He lowered the gun slowly, his hand shaking violently. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the door. Who the hell would be knocking at this hour? No one ever came to see him. No one even knew he existed anymore.

Another knock, followed by a voice.

"Ethan, it's Sam! Open up!"

Sam. The name sent a jolt through him, like an electric shock that briefly cut through the fog in his mind. Sam was his old military buddy, one of the few people who had stuck around after everything had fallen apart. But they hadn't spoken in weeks. Months, maybe. Why was he here now?

Ethan let out a shaky breath, lowering the gun completely. He stared at it, still feeling the cold metal against his skin, but the weight of the moment had shifted. He couldn't ignore the knocking, couldn't ignore Sam's voice. Something in him—a tiny, fragile part of him that hadn't yet given up—made him set the gun down on the counter.

His legs felt unsteady as he moved toward the door, each step heavier than the last. He hesitated when he reached it, his hand hovering over the handle. His mind screamed at him to just leave it, to let Sam go away, to return to the stillness that had nearly swallowed him whole. But he couldn't.

With a deep breath, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Sam stood there, drenched from the rain, his face twisted with a mix of worry and frustration. He looked Ethan up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing the situation, as if he could sense the weight of what had almost happened.

"Jesus, man," Sam muttered, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You weren't answering your phone. I've been trying to reach you all night."

Ethan didn't respond. He just stood there, staring at Sam, feeling like he was watching everything from a distance. His body was here, but his mind was somewhere else, still caught in the liminal space between life and death.

Sam glanced around the apartment, his gaze landing on the counter, where the gun still sat. His eyes widened for a split second, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned back to Ethan, his voice softening.

"Come on," Sam said quietly. "Let's sit down."

Ethan nodded numbly, allowing Sam to guide him to the couch. He sat down heavily, his body feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Sam took the seat next to him, close but not too close, leaving enough space for Ethan to breathe.

For a long time, they sat in silence. The rain continued to pound against the windows, and the only sound inside the apartment was the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Ethan's hands rested in his lap, still trembling, though the worst of the storm inside him had passed.

After what felt like an eternity, Sam finally spoke.

"You don't have to do this alone, Ethan," he said softly. "You don't have to carry this weight by yourself."

Ethan didn't respond right away. His throat felt tight, his chest constricted with emotions he couldn't put into words. He had been carrying this burden for so long, he didn't know how to let anyone else help.