Content Warning:
This piece includes references to mental health challenges such as suicidal thoughts, experiences of discrimination, and emotionally intense language. As this year’s theme explores transitions, some submissions engage deeply with personal and vulnerable experiences. Please take care while reading, and feel free to pause or step away if needed.
You hate your roommate. He’s harmless, and in the grand scheme of awful roommates, he’s decent—but you hate him. He’s the kind of guy you’ll never respect because, for the first 20 years of his life, everything was done for him, and now for the next 20 years he’ll act like it’s still that way. He’s been in the kitchen for 2 hours and 24 minutes making a cabbage dish. You know because you timed him. He stomps when he walks.
You text your dad because you miss him. He is—was—your best friend. He doesn’t answer.
You want to text your partner. You are texting your partner. But their apartment is being torn apart, they’re stressed, and now they’re saying no, you can’t come over. You’ve been together every night since you moved.
It hurts because you know you haven’t been over every night, but that’s not the point they’re making. You know that. So you play it cool, saying it’s okay, you’ll be fine. Maybe if you fake it for a few minutes, you’ll stop sobbing.
Who can you reach out to at 8 p.m. on a Thursday when you feel yourself falling apart?
That’s a very specific question no one has a real answer to. Maybe they ask you that in the job interviews you’re not getting .
You don’t know your therapist’s number.
You consider texting the chef who liked you enough to fuck you but not enough to date you. The one who finds you infuriating because it took you no time to know him better than anyone and he can’t decide if that turns him on or scares him off. So, he ghosts you.
You don’t text your brother. He called you a faggot and told you to be careful about catching AIDS from your date.
You (regrettably) text your mother. She replies: “Independence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be 😂”
You cry harder. You should’ve listened to yourself a minute ago, telling you not to.
The white numbness starts to creep in. The same feeling you used to get when you were 17. Every busy intersection you passed, every high building you walked under, every train that zoomed by. It turns your food bland, your sleep restless, and your body an unfamiliar mass of flesh.
WHO CAN YOU REACH OUT TO AT 8 P.M. ON A THURSDAY WHEN YOU FEEL YOURSELF FALLING BACKWARD?
You message an app your therapist recommended. It connects you to a helpline. The person on the other end sounds like they haven’t dealt with this situation before. You don’t know how to tell them you need to calm down.
But they’re trying. Your heart starts to slow. You appreciate that their cliche advice is their best attempt to help. You realize they’re all just responding the way they think is right. And, in that moment, you feel it—that version of you, the gentle, wiser you that’s been quietly showing up in your thoughts.
You realize you can do anything you want. Not in an “achieve your dreams” kind of way, but in a “I can get up, pack a bag, and go home to my old bedroom” kind of way. Or I can wander the streets for an hour and buy a cake. You can stop resenting everyone who doesn’t know how to help you. You can (but won’t) tell your roommate to stop sucking or break your lease.
You realize you’ve stopped crying. Your mind feels clearer. You change out of your wet shirt. Your roommate leaves the kitchen, and you can finally make your dinner the way you like it.
You eat it all. Wash up. Lie down.
The gentle-you rubs your head and says, “Tomorrow morning, it’ll feel like almost nothing.”
You get up and write on a post-it note:
“No matter what, you fucking get through it.”
You’re not sure if it’s meant to be threatening or hopeful, but you like it.
You put it on your wall and go to sleep.