Appointments
He didn't remember scheduling the therapy appointment. It was likely Dr. Lennox who called, part of an outreach initiative from the archive's HR department. Someone must have flagged him—missed emails, declining performance, isolation. The voice on the phone had been gentle, persistent.
"You don't have to say anything," she said. "Just show up."
So he did. He sat in the room with walls the color of dust and tried not to unravel. The chair was soft but unfamiliar. There was no desk between them—just space, open and terrifying.
She asked simple questions. He gave simple answers.
"Why are you here, Elliot?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought maybe something could change."
"What do you want to change?"
He couldn't answer. Wanting was dangerous. Hope was worse. He left before the hour was up.
On the way out, he noticed a painting by the exit—just three shades of grey in a swirling storm. It looked exactly like how he felt, and for a moment, he hated it for being honest.
That night, he didn't sleep. Not really. He lay still and counted the cracks in his ceiling. By morning, he had memorized every line.