Fractured

1. Breaking Point

The clock on the wall ticked, each second dragging by like thick syrup. I sat in the stiff leather chair, my fingers nervously picking at the frayed hem of my oversized sweater. I couldn't remember the last time I felt anything but exhausted—exhausted by the world, exhausted by myself, exhausted by the endless loop of thoughts that spun through my mind like a scratched record.

The relentless ticking and my racing thoughts were interrupted by Dr. Lucas Gray's voice. It was deep and resonant, carrying the calm assurance of someone who had witnessed and gone through much. Smooth and soothing, with a gentle warmth that made me feel momentarily safe, his voice was like a soft, knowing embrace. "Why don't you introduce yourself? Tell me a little about you."

I sighed, the sound escaping like I was letting go of something heavy. I stared down at my hands, searching for the right words. The silence in the room felt thick, stifling, like it was pressing down on me, making it harder to pull myself out of the fog in my head.

Dr. Gray's gaze remained steady and compassionate. He waited patiently, offering me silent understanding.

"Hi, I'm Jessie Hill, and I guess I'm supposed to tell you that I'm depressed."

The words felt alien as they left my mouth, like they belonged to someone else—a stranger who had taken up residence in my body. But I knew they were mine. Depression wasn't just a shadow that followed me around; it was the very air I breathed, the silence that seemed to thunder in my ears, the weight that pressed down on my chest every morning when I tried to get out of bed.

"The thing about depression is, it kind of collapses time," Rue Bennett said in Euphoria, and for once, I felt that weird, scary sense of recognition, even though I wished I didn't. Time didn't just collapse—it bled into itself, stretching and warping until days and nights became meaningless. I felt like I was drifting, untethered, and the more I tried to hold on to something solid, the more I slipped away.

I wasn't always in therapy. There was a time when the idea of sitting in a room like this, talking about my feelings, would've made me laugh. But here I am. And the truth is, I'm not even sure what I'm doing here. Part of me feels like this is just another thing I'm going to fail at—like I'm already too broken for anyone to fix.

Dr. Gray is still watching me, waiting for me to say something else, but I'm not sure what to tell him. Do I start with the sleepless nights, the nightmares that wake me up in a cold sweat? Do I talk about the emptiness that's been growing inside me, the way it's been eating away at everything that used to matter? Or do I just keep quiet and hope that somehow, he'll figure it out without me having to say a word?

I guess I should go back, to help you understand how I got here.

Before Therapy

I barely get any sleep. Maybe two hours, tops. Last night was horrible—Carter (my boyfriend) and I went at it again. I told him I feel like he doesn't love me, and, well, that went about as well as you'd expect. Spoiler: not at all.

He hits me with the same bullshit—I'm too dramatic, I overthink everything. But that's Carter for you. Never sees the mess he leaves behind, never notices how his words slice me open, how his silence feels like I'm slowly vanishing. Honestly, I can't even remember the last time we didn't argue. I just lie there in the dark, feeling more alone than ever, wondering how things got so fucked up.

Morning rolls around, and everything feels heavy. My body, my thoughts, even the goddamn air feels like it's out to choke me. I drag myself out of bed, my mind already a foggy mess. It's funny, really, how I can go through the motions—shower, get dressed, make coffee—like I'm on autopilot, while my mind's stuck replaying every bad thing that's ever happened to me.