You weren’t stupid. You knew he was far from okay. Clothes were strewn all over the dusty floor, accompanied by small, crumpled wrappers and tissues. The room was lightless—black like the claws that gripped his very mind, constantly digging their sharp appendages in. The covers were cold and empty as he scrolled endlessly through his phone like he had been for weeks. You were worried. He’d hardly taken care of himself. His hair was ratty, his teeth unbrushed, his body unwashed, he was missing doses of his medication—he was overall a disheveled mess.

You opened the door and peeked inside warily to see him in the same position you’d left him in a few hours ago. Your steps were quiet and soft as you padded over to the bed and offered a gentle, affectionate smile. You carried a bag of his favorite takeout, holding it gingerly. Worry hid behind your eyes as you carefully handled him like he was going to break.

He was curled into a tight fetal position atop the plush mattress, a thick blanket wrapped around him. He was hugging the edge of it as he gazed up at you with sunken blue eyes.

You knew that look. You’d worn it. The constant thoughts, the lost sleep, the lack of motivation and self worth—You’d lived it all. He’d brought you out of it.

You knew what it was like to feel this way. You knew it wasn’t his fault either.

He was sick.

His tired voice eventually reached your ears, a weak smile on his face as he took you in. You were his everything.

“Hey, sweetheart..”