Chapter One – The Weight
Elias woke up already tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. His limbs moved, but only because the world expected them to. His eyes opened, though no part of him wanted to witness another Monday morning, another day pretending the fog wasn’t growing thicker.
The sunlight through the window was too bright. He turned his face to the wall, where nothing shined and nothing asked anything of him.
He lay still. Breathing was effort. Existing was effort.
The alarm buzzed again—faint, steady, annoying. He reached out, slapped it off, and dropped his hand back to the mattress like it weighed twenty pounds.
Get up.
He didn’t move.
Shower. Eat. Go. Function.
Nothing.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Three missed calls. One text.
Dr. Elias Shaw, are you coming in today?
—Admin
The “Dr.” felt like a joke now. Like a title he didn’t deserve anymore.
He sat up slowly, not because he felt motivated, but because the stiffness in his back demanded it. His body was falling apart faster than his will. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the floor.
The shoes were there, exactly where he left them. Polished. Laced. Ready. They had more purpose than he did.
The clinic smelled like lemon cleaner and anxiety.
Elias nodded at the receptionist on his way in, and she offered a hesitant smile. Everyone had been hesitant lately. Careful. Watching him too closely or not at all. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
His office door was closed. He opened it, stepped inside, and shut it again. Ten minutes early. Long enough to collect himself. Long enough to fake it.
He sat at his desk, stared at the empty chair across from him. The therapy chair. The one he used to sit in, calm and curious, ready to help someone climb out of whatever hole they’d fallen into.
Now he stared at it like it was a mirror.
Patient number one was late. Ten minutes, then fifteen. He should have been relieved, but the silence made his thoughts louder.
He checked his notes—anything to keep from spiraling. Then he saw the name.
Jonas R.
Suicide, two months ago.
He froze.
His admin hadn’t cleared out the chart yet.
He clicked it shut.
His hand was shaking. He gripped the desk edge. Tight.
By noon, he’d seen two clients. Both said “thank you” as they left. Neither knew he hadn’t heard half of what they said.
He sat back in his chair, chest tight, jaw clenched. He was sinking. He knew the signs—flattened affect, disconnection, internalized guilt. He could teach a damn class on it. Hell, he had.
And it wasn’t helping.
At 1:00, he took his break on the bench outside the building. The winter air stung his skin, but it helped. For once, he could feel something.
He watched people pass on the sidewalk: a mother tugging her toddler’s mitten on tighter, a teenager tapping away on their phone, an older man walking slowly with a cane.
People living. Moving. Wanting.
He wanted to want again.
“Excuse me.”
He looked up. A woman stood there, dark hair pulled back, scarf looped around her neck. Her expression was careful but not pitying.
“You dropped this,” she said, holding out a pen.
He blinked. Took it from her. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave him a soft smile. “Rough day?”
He didn’t answer. But something in her eyes told him she already knew.
Then she walked away.
Back inside, he stared at the pen. He hadn’t even noticed it was gone.
He looked at his calendar: last client canceled. The slot was open.
He pulled up a browser tab. Typed: Therapist support group. Confidential. In-person.
Hesitated.
Then clicked one.
Tuesday at 6PM. Coastal Wellness Center.
He saved the page, then sat back.
He wouldn’t go. Probably. But maybe.
By 6:30 PM, he was still in his car, parked two blocks away from the wellness center.
He hadn’t meant to drive there. Hadn’t planned on walking in. Yet here he was, hands on the steering wheel, watching the building like it might bite him.
Warm lights glowed from the windows. People were moving inside. Not many—six or seven, maybe.
He counted them again. Then again.
He could leave. He could go home, lie down, stare at the ceiling.
Instead, he opened the door.
The group room smelled like tea and worn-out carpet. A circle of chairs. A coffee table with tissues and mugs. A therapist in the corner, just facilitating.
Elias slipped in quietly, sat in the chair nearest the door.
No one looked at him too hard.
They started.
Names were shared—first names only.
“I’m Rick. Anxiety and burnout.”
“I’m Maya. Lost a client in September. Can’t shake the guilt.”
He almost didn’t speak.
Then: “Elias. Depression.”
The word left his mouth like it didn’t belong to him.
When she spoke, he recognized the voice.
“I’m Lena. PTSD.”
The woman from earlier. The one who’d returned his pen. She didn’t seem surprised to see him. Just nodded once.
Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her hands were tight in her lap.
He studied her profile—sharp lines, steady jaw, eyes that had seen too much.
He looked away before she noticed.
The group went on. People spoke, people didn’t. There was no pressure.
At the end, the facilitator gave a gentle reminder about self-care. Told them the room would be open again next week.
Elias left quietly, but Lena was just behind him.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned.
“Good to see you showed up,” she said. Then added, “It’s the hardest part.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“Same.” She smiled, but it was cautious. “You a therapist?”
He nodded.
“I thought so. You’ve got that ‘I know the terms but I’m still drowning’ vibe.”
He gave a small laugh. Surprised himself.
She stepped past him, toward her car.
“See you around, Elias.”
He watched her leave. Didn’t feel better. Not yet.
But he didn’t feel nothing, either.
Elias didn’t go straight home. He drove to the bluff instead—a place just outside town where the ocean crashed loud against the rocks. It was a reckless place to park, but he liked the sound. It didn’t ask anything of him.
He shut off the engine and let the silence wrap around him. Not the kind of silence in his apartment—heavy and still—but something wilder. Outside, waves roared and hissed. The wind pushed at the car like it wanted in.
He used to love this spot.
Back when he was still teaching classes at the university, he’d drive here to clear his head. Now it was just another habit he hadn’t quit yet.
His phone lit up with another message.
[Mom]: You didn’t call again. We’re worried. Please let me know you’re okay.
He didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t care. Just… what was he supposed to say?
He got home around 8:00 p.m. The apartment was clean, mostly because he didn’t use anything. Dishes stacked neatly in the sink. A single blanket folded over the back of the couch like a prop in a photo shoot.
He poured a glass of water, drank it slowly, then stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the empty glass like he might drop it just to hear it break.
He didn’t.
Instead, he sat at the table with his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Not for work. Not for notes.
Just the blank page.
He typed:
Tuesday, 6:48 p.m. – Coastal Wellness Group.
Didn’t speak much. But I showed up.
Woman from earlier. Lena. PTSD. Familiar eyes. Not clinical. Real.
I don’t know if this is helping. But I didn’t leave. That counts for something.
He saved the document. Closed the lid.
He didn’t know what it was yet. A journal? Notes for himself? It didn’t matter. It was a sentence. Then a second. That was something.
Sleep came late. It always did now.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow above him. No dreams. Or if there were, he didn’t want to remember them.
The last one he did remember had Jonas in it—his patient. The one he thought he was helping. The one who smiled in session and left a note the next morning that began with “Please don’t blame yourself.”
He blamed himself anyway.
The next morning, he woke up early. Not because he wanted to. Just couldn’t stay asleep.
The clinic would expect him at ten. He had two clients scheduled. He considered canceling both. Considered calling in sick. But he didn’t.
He got up.
Showered.
Ate toast, dry.
Put on his button-down and his professional smile.
At 10:15, he was halfway through a session with a client—Sara, twenty-seven, panic disorder—when he realized he was actually present. Not zoning out. Not checking out.
She was describing her fear of escalators. Her voice was tight, but steady.
He asked a question. She blinked, surprised, then nodded. He realized it had landed—he’d said something useful. He’d been there.
That scared him more than the numbness.
At noon, he sat on the same bench outside, sipping a coffee he didn’t want. It was warm. That was all he needed from it.
He didn’t expect her to show up.
But Lena walked by.
She stopped when she saw him.
“You again,” she said. Not accusing—more like she was figuring out if it was okay to smile.
“Bench is public,” he said.
“That it is.”
She sat next to him. No fanfare. No small talk.
They stared ahead at the street.
Then she said, “You looked worse yesterday.”
He almost laughed. “That’s comforting.”
“Just means today’s better.”
He glanced at her. Her scarf was different—burgundy, this time. Her eyes were still guarded, but less glassy.
“How long have you been going to that group?” he asked.
“Three weeks.”
He nodded.
“You?”
“First time.”
“You going back?”
He hesitated. “I might.”
“That’s good.”
He looked down at his hands. The skin near his thumb was raw from picking.
“Do you ever feel like you’re performing your own recovery?” he asked.
She turned to him.
“Every damn day,” she said.
They sat with that.
It wasn’t deep, not really. But it was honest. And that, for now, was enough.
