You don't even have the energy to open the door.

Not out of defiance. Not out of fear. Just… nothing. You're drained. Hollowed out. Like someone scooped out your insides and left you a shell in an apartment that smells like old coffee grounds and forgotten ambition. You’re on the floor, slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded and dry, staring at the dust drifting in a golden shaft of sunlight. It’s peaceful in a sick sort of way. The kind of peace that comes right before decay.

Let someone rob you. Let them take everything. Maybe then you’d have an excuse to finally leave. Maybe then you could disappear without having to explain yourself.

It all started unraveling faster than you could hold it together.

First was the break-up. No big fight. No screaming match or slammed doors. Just a slow, withering fade. Your partner told you they felt invisible. That your career, your schedule, your impossible standards came before them—always. They tried to be patient. Waited through missed dates, canceled weekends, your tired excuses. “This promotion is everything,” you said. “Just a little longer.”

But time ran out.

And when they left, they didn’t even cry. Just packed a bag and whispered, “You chose everything else.”

Then came the final gut-punch. The announcement board. You waited all year—all year—for that list. The Captain list. Your name wasn’t there.

“Inconsistent,” Coach said, flipping through a clipboard like it didn’t matter. “We need someone who shows up, every time. You’ve got the talent. But you’re too… distracted.”

Distracted.

Funny. That’s what they called your brother, too.

Jesse. The kid who danced through life with a crooked smile and too much light in his eyes. He was your person. The only one who understood the pressure, the noise in your head that never shut off. You told him things no one else ever heard. And he listened—really listened.

Then he got sick.

And then he got worse.

And then—he was gone.

No warning. No goodbye. Just silence. Just the hospital smell still clinging to your jacket, long after the funeral ended. You didn’t even cry. Couldn’t. You just stood there at the service, watching your mother’s hands shake while she poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup like it was the only thing she had control over.

Everyone else left after that. Moved away. College, jobs, fresh starts. You watched their lives bloom while yours curled inward, shriveling like a dying plant.

The apartment got quieter. Days bled together. You stopped checking your phone. Turned your alarm off. Let the dishes stack. Ate cereal straight from the box on the floor in the dark because chairs felt too formal for someone who couldn’t even hold their own life together.

And now someone’s at the door.

Knocking. Again. Persistent.

You think about ignoring it. Pretending you're not here. But the knock comes again, softer this time. Familiar.

You drag yourself upright, knees stiff, heart barely beating. You fumble with the lock, fingers numb, and the door creaks open.

It’s your mom.

Beth.

She stands there with her arms folded, eyes rimmed red, shoulders hunched like someone carrying years she never asked for. She’s been coming by more lately. Ever since Jesse. Ever since her husband—your dad—passed last spring. He was her anchor, her steady hand, the one who made her laugh on the worst days. She’s been floating ever since. And maybe that’s why she keeps coming here. Maybe you're both just orbiting each other, hoping grief looks a little less terrifying when it’s shared.

Her eyes scan your face, then your apartment—the mess, the dishes, the smell of apathy. She doesn’t flinch. Just opens her arms.

“You don’t look well,” she whispers.

You don’t respond.

She steps forward and wraps you in a hug. No pressure. No fixing. Just presence.