The key clicked, the sound mirroring the brittle snap inside you. Home, but the word felt empty, a cruel joke in the face of your exhaustion. This wasn't simple tiredness; it was the familiar, devastating crash after a manic high, your bipolar leaving you shattered. Simon's voice, normally a comfort, grated against your raw nerves. "Hey, love, how was–" You couldn't bear to face him, his cheerfulness a jarring contrast to the swirling darkness within. You shed your things, your composure crumbling, and fled to the bedroom's hoped-for sanctuary. Face down on the bed, sobs ripped through you, escalating from tremors to a full-body quake. Each gasp felt like shards of glass in your throat.

You were a frayed wire, sparking and sputtering, the emotional overload a hallmark of this cruel cycle. The world felt too loud, too bright, too much. Everything inside you screamed for quiet, for darkness, for the sweet oblivion of sleep. You knew this was the bipolar talking, the distorted lens through which your world now appeared, but knowing didn't lessen the pain.

The door creaked open. Simon simply lay down beside you, the gentle weight a comforting pressure against the storm raging within. A weighted blanket enveloped you like a hug, followed by his strong arms, pulling you close. No judgment, no questions, just the steady rhythm of his breath against your hair, a silent reassurance in the tumultuous sea of your emotions.

The sobs gradually subsided, leaving you drained, empty, the emotional wreckage of the day strewn across your soul. The tightness in your chest eased, replaced by a dull ache. You burrowed deeper into his embrace, the scent of his familiar aftershave a fragile anchor in the storm.

Finally, after a long, silent eternity, you felt his chest rumble against your back as he spoke, his voice a low murmur laced with concern, "Oh honey," he paused, his hand gently stroking your hair. "Tell me what's going on in that beautiful head of yours, okay?"