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Back home, my life folds itself neatly into the borders of its routine. The front door locks first: one turn to the right, a pause, then back left to check, and right again. A ritual, a trinity of assurances that no one will enter without permission.

My shoes come off next. They align themselves precisely by the door, their heels touching and toes angled just so, forming a triangle of calm. The symmetry pulls me back to myself. I exhale, a long, slow release of air, as though I’ve been holding my breath all day.

In the kitchen, I retrieve the meal I’ve assigned to Tuesdays: a roasted chicken breast, a half-cup of steamed broccoli, and a neat, compact mound of white rice. The microwave is set for one minute and forty-five seconds—never more, never less. The seconds tick down with an unbearable slowness, each beep of the timer reminding me that even the smallest things follow rules.

I eat standing at the counter. My feet are planted shoulder-width apart, grounding me. Each bite is chewed with purpose, a steady rhythm—ten presses of my teeth before swallowing. My jaw moves like a metronome, keeping time in the stillness of the kitchen.

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When I finish, the plate is rinsed immediately. The plate slides into its place among others in the dishwasher, the fork and knife laid parallel, each slot in the silverware rack an invitation for order.

Then, the couch. The remote feels cool and solid in my hand as I press power. The Golden Girls’ theme song hums through the living room, warm and familiar. This is when my brain finally quiets. The canned laughter is impersonal and safe, cushioning my thoughts like a pillow pressed gently against my face. Two episodes—exactly two, no more no less—before I rise, like clockwork.

The workout comes next. Thirty minutes with resistance bands, the motions as repetitive as dinner: pull, release, pull, release. My body works mechanically, but my thoughts continue their relentless loops. The overdue rent. The follow up email for a potential job I sent two days ago that hasn’t been answered. The job applications scattered across cyberspace like confetti thrown into the void.

Afterward, a shower. The water is nearly scalding. My skin blooms pink under the spray, and for a moment, I feel real. It reddens my skin, burns the surface, makes me feel tangible in a way I need. The soap I use smells of lavender, but it’s the heat that matters, the way it makes the world shrink to just this—just skin, water, and the steam that curls like a second body around me. The towel is folded when I finish, its edges even as I drape it back over the rack. Lavender lingers faintly in the air.

This is when I usually crawl into bed for my nightly cry. It is not the dramatic kind. There are no sobs, no gasping for air. It’s quieter than that; measured, like a leaking faucet. The tears come slowly, silently, rationed as though I fear one day they’ll run out. I wipe them away with the edge of the pillowcase, careful to keep my breathing even, the act as much a part of my routine as brushing my teeth.

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But tonight, instead of reaching for the tissue box, I reach for my phone.

The red icon of SDForMe.com lights up the screen, a small glowing symbol of the choice I made. My thumb hovers for a moment before I press, the app opening to reveal two messages. My first messages.

The first is from Nathan. He is forty-eight years old. I like that number, the roundness and evenness of it. His profile picture a curated kindness: salt-and-pepper hair, a smile that suggests he is safe, dependable, boring.

His message is polite, almost clinical:

Hi, Gia. I’d love to meet you for coffee sometime. Let me know if you’re interested.

I reply quickly, my fingers moving before I’ve had a chance to second-guess:

Hi. Thank you for the message. I’d love to meet for coffee sometime. :)

The smiley face is purposeful. Flirty, but not desperate. I press send. My chest tightens immediately, the weight of crossing a line I can’t uncross settling heavily in my ribcage.

The second message waits, its subject line deceptively casual: Hey, beautiful.

I hesitate, then tap it open. My stomach drops. The profile picture loads slowly, and when it does, I see a man older than Nathan, with thinning hair and round glasses. He looks like my father. My actual father.

I close the message without reading further, my hands trembling. The delete button feels like a lifeline, but even after I press it, the image stays burned into my brain.

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I used to think about killing myself like it was something I might get around to eventually, like folding laundry or cleaning out the fridge. Not in a big, dramatic way—not the kind that you dangle in front of a therapist to see if they’ll flinch. It was quieter than that, more practical. A passing thought, casual and constant, like a low hum in the background, like a draft slipping under a door.

One time, I lined up a bottle of my prescription Xanax on the bathroom counter. Popped off the childproof cap, tipped the pills out into a neat, glinting row. The little white tablets gleamed under the light, each one a promise of nothingness. I thought about swallowing all them, one by one. I imagined the ritual of it, the finality. But even then, I hesitated. It felt messy, unpredictable. What if it didn’t work? What if I just ended up in the hospital, hooked up to tubes, everyone looking at me like I was a failed experiment?

I couldn’t bear that—being alive, but worse.

That thought was worse than dying, so I put the pills back in the bottle, screwed the cap on tight, and tucked it back into the medicine cabinet. Left it there like a secret, something I might revisit later.

That was years ago, before I got fired. Having my job helped with those thoughts. It gave me rules to follow. People relied on me. Deadlines, spreadsheets, a reason to set my alarm. It gave my life the illusion of structure, and I clung to it like a raft in open water, it held me up like scaffolding.

But the job was a mask, not a cure. It hid the cracks but didn’t fix them. I’ve been depressed far longer than I’ve been unemployed. The firing just stripped away the pretense, left me raw and exposed, with no one to perform for.

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Now, the pills are still in the cabinet. I know exactly where they are, tucked behind the expired cough syrup and half-empty bottle

of Advil. I don’t think about overdosing on them as much anymore. Not because I don’t want to disappear, but because I don’t trust myself to do it right.

I set the phone face down on the nightstand, its glow extinguished, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. The tears come, hot and slow, carving tracks down my temples. They pool in the hollow beneath my jaw, heavier than usual but quieter, somehow.

Tonight, the tears feel different. They are not despair, not hopelessness. They feel like something else entirely—something sharp and terrifying, carving space for whatever comes next.