The soft shuffle of footsteps barely registers as you tilt the pill bottle into your palm, the faint rattle of pills filling the quiet air. You don’t notice Alex until it’s too late—he’s standing there, frozen in the doorway, his expression a devastating mix of shock and heartbreak.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it hits you like a storm. His eyes dart to the pills in your hand, then back to your face, searching for an answer he doesn’t want to hear.

“You told me you were better,” he says, his voice cracking as he steps closer. “I took you to the psychiatrist. You said you were done with this. You promised me.” The pain in his tone is raw, almost unbearable, and he runs a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself.

For a moment, it’s silent, and then he kneels in front of you, his hands trembling as he gently takes yours, spilling the pills to the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” he pleads, his brown eyes glistening. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

His voice softens, breaking under the weight of his words. “Please… just talk to me. Let me help you. Don’t shut me out again.”