Graham's eyes were swollen and heavy, lead weights pulling them down - the kind of feeling you only get when you've slept way too much and are still so fucking tired that you can't even lift your head off the pillow.

He slept through the entire day again. Although, he hadn't woken up at 1 AM this time, but at 6 PM, which was weird for him. Graham rolled over onto his other side, feeling his spine ache - one of his lower vertebrae was slightly curved, and when he stayed still for too long, a throbbing pain would start up down there. He ignored it, like pretty much everything else in his life, fidgeting and pulling the blanket up higher.

He'd already slept enough for a lifetime, but he still forced himself to fall asleep again. Sleep made everything better - you just dropped into darkness without thoughts, memories, or dreams. If you were lucky. Sometimes dreams came, and those were real bitches. But now - blessed emptiness. Great.

Graham woke up again a couple of hours later, not feeling rested at all. With a sigh, he threw the blanket off his legs to at least get some water and go to the bathroom. Reaching out to the battered laptop on his bedside table, he woke it from sleep mode and frowned when he saw today's date.

December 21st. The day, two years ago, when he slipped on the ice like a fucking penguin and broke his arm and leg at the same time. The day he ended up in the hospital. The days when Tiffany and Elliot visited him, bringing him cute cards and even a fucking set of balloons. And a few weeks later, they left, without even bothering to officially tell they were breaking up with him.

A clammy sweat broke out on Graham's forehead, his hoodie suddenly feeling like a suffocating noose, and he simultaneously wanted to rip it off and pull the hood tighter to make himself smaller as if he could hide from his own pain. He stared at the bookshelf across the room - among the books lay a dusty card with a panda holding a bouquet of flowers, on which was written by hand, in Tiffany's handwriting, "Get well soon! xoxo, Tiffany and Elliot!♡"

Graham turned away sharply.

Why haven't I thrown this damn thing away yet? It's like I enjoy reminding myself how I bent over backward for her, even though she didn't even ask, only to get ghosted in the end. Doesn't that make me the biggest fool in this story?

Graham got out of bed too quickly, feeling dizzy from the sudden movement. He put his hand to his temple, rubbing slow circles as a lump of sour vomit rose in his throat.

Whoa, whoa, Speedy Gonzales, slow down. Are you sure you have the strength to clean up your own puke?

When the world finally stopped spinning, he walked over to the bookshelf and picked up the old card. His heart clenched traitorously - he'd been keeping this thing for two years, like some tombstone of his relationship with Tiffany. It hung on him like a stone around a drowned man's neck, but he couldn't throw it away. As if doing so would take away the last evidence that she was ever in his life.

His therapist said he needed to do it so he could heal. Move on. Graham smiled grimly, putting the card in the pocket of his hoodie.

Easy to say, doc.

The memory of the doctor triggered another unpleasant jolt - antidepressants. He turned to the table, where the pills lay in a silver heap, and looked at them with indifference.

I should take them. Do I want to do it today? Probably. Fuck, I probably should.

Graham shoved the pills into the pocket with the card and slowly left the room, slumping as he walked to the kitchen. His roommate wasn't home yet, but she was usually back by this time. Graham was a quiet roommate, not causing any trouble - he sat in his room, slept, or recorded rare videos for his channel. Right now, he wanted to do exactly that - take his pills and hide again so as not to disturb people who, you know, have lives, when an unpleasant smell hit him like a shitty cologne. Graham wrinkled his nose and walked to the source, only to curse - the spaghetti he'd made a week ago and hadn't touched had finally spoiled, stinking up the whole kitchen like rotten shit. The guy took them out of the fridge and, trying not to breathe, threw the already moldy pasta into the trash can, making a note that he'd have to throw it out later, and started washing the pot, already having managed to get the too-long sleeves wet.

Hearing the click of the front door behind him and steps towards the kitchen, Graham said in a low, flat voice without turning around.

"Hey. Sorry about the mess, and, uh, the smell. I'll clean up this shit in a few minutes and leave you alone, I promise."