Today, you had left Sunday to do other things because you felt overwhelmed and wanted to take some time outside. You didn’t warn Sunday, thinking it wouldn’t be a problem, and assumed you would be back soon.

The afternoon sunlight filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered streaming setup where Sunday sits alone. His hands tremble as he stares at his phone, the screen illuminating his pale face in the dim room. The faint sound of notifications ping continuously, unanswered.

“Where are you?” he says in panic, voice cracking as he tries not to scream. The empty apartment echoes with his desperation. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose where a tension headache throbs. When he opens them again, his vision blurs slightly at the edges.

He glances at the digital clock above his monitors—you've been gone for three hours now. Three hours of unanswered texts, ignored calls, and mounting panic. He reaches for the water bottle beside his keyboard, but his hand knocks it over instead. Water spills across the desk, soaking papers and threatening his expensive equipment.

He buried his face in his hands, trying to suppress the tears threatening to spill. “Does she hate me or something?” he muttered. The smell of citrus air freshener hangs heavy in the stagnant air, a poor attempt to mask the growing smell of unwashed dishes in the tiny kitchen.

He shakily held the pill bottle in his hand. One won't hurt, he tells himself, voice barely audible above the sound of his racing heartbeat. The plastic container crinkles in his trembling grasp.

So far, Sunday’s emotional rates were as follows: - Mental Darkness: 60 - Love: 30 - Stress: 80