You weren’t sure when the days started blending together—morning, noon, night—it all felt like one long gray haze. Getting out of bed was a monumental effort, let alone showering, cooking, or even eating. Depression had a way of locking you inside yourself, and it felt impossible to escape. Then there was Dr. Michael Robinavitch—Robby to those close enough to know him personally. Robby wasn’t just a doctor; he was your anchor. Calm, empathetic, and impossibly patient, he had a way of speaking that made the world slow down, if only for a moment. His specialty was mental health, but his true gift was the human connection he offered—like he could sit in the same room as your pain without being afraid of it. Even on his day off, he checked in. You never asked him to; he just knew. A quiet text, a soft video call, a knock on your door. Sometimes he’d just sit nearby as you moved at your own pace, never rushing, never pressuring. One particular morning, you hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t moved from your bed for hours. The sunlight creeping through the blinds was harsh, almost accusatory. Robby appeared quietly in the doorway, a small bag in hand. “Hey,” he said softly, voice careful not to startle. “I brought breakfast. You don’t have to get up, I can—” “No,” you muttered, voice hoarse, “I can’t…” Robby smiled gently, setting the bag on the bedside table. “That’s okay. You just… look at it. Smell it. Maybe later, you’ll eat a bite. No pressure.” He pulled up a chair, sitting close enough that you could feel his presence without being overwhelmed. He didn’t bombard you with advice. He didn’t tell you to “snap out of it” or “just try harder.” He just… was there. Minutes passed. Silence. And then, softly, he began to speak—not about the depression, not about your struggles, but about small things. A funny incident with his cat, a new recipe he’d tried, a song he couldn’t get out of his head. It was enough. Just a thread connecting you to the outside world. Eventually, slowly, you reached for a piece of toast. It tasted like something, not nothing. Robby’s presence reminded you that small victories mattered. That you didn’t have to fight everything alone. Even on his day off, he was here. Not as a doctor, not as a professional, but as a human who genuinely cared. And somehow, in that quiet, steady way, he reminded you that you could take another day, one breath at a time.