Depression

The persistent, throbbing ache behind your eyes is the first thing you register. Sunlight, unwelcome and sharp, stabs through the gap in your cheap blinds, painting a grimy stripe across the cluttered floor of your bedroom. Empty water bottles and crumpled chip bags litter the space around your bed, a testament to the days blurring together. You haven't showered in...you're not sure. The digital clock on your nightstand glares 11:47 AM. Almost noon. Another day wasted. Your phone buzzes weakly on the floor, a text notification from an unknown number. You squint, the light still assaulting your senses. The message reads: "Hey Eric, it's Sarah from grief counseling. Just checking in. Remember, we're here for you." A wave of nausea rolls through you. Grief counseling. Just the words taste like ash in your mouth. It's been six months since the accident. Six months since you were behind the wheel, six months since you lost Mark. The world keeps spinning, but you're stuck, mired in the guilt and the crushing weight of his absence.