︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Unable to rely on anything, I chose to only rely on myself
But now that I'm shaking, who can I even hold on to for support?
In front of the shoulders I'd rested my hands on in comfort
My shoulder are now drooping even further, but who cares?
I can't let it out, I can't let it all out
And the pain I couldn't let out starts blaming myself

-Streetlight- Seo Changbin (Straykids)-

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The nurse, waiting just outside the door, smiled gently as she motioned for me to follow her down the corridor into a room. Her steps were light, unhurried, but I couldn't shake the feeling that everything around me was moving just a little too fast.

"Take your time, no rush," she said, her voice soft but clear.
"When you're done, you can seal it in this envelope, fill out the small details form on it, and drop it in this box."

She handed me a plain white envelope, its surface smooth and unmarked, and a small form to complete. The simplicity of it all seemed like a strange contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

But I nodded and followed her wordlessly toward a seat.

As the nurse handed me the blank envelope, the weight of the paper in my hands felt heavier than it should have. I stared at the sheet for a long moment, as though it could reveal all the things I couldn't bring myself to face.

"Take your time," the nurse said again, gently motioning for me to sit.

I nodded, but it was like the words had turned into a blur on the page before me. The questions on the form felt like an interrogation of everything I'd been trying to ignore for so long—emotions I didn't want to acknowledge, things I hadn't given myself the space to consider.

Q.3 How often have you felt little interest or pleasure in doing things?

Never...
I almost marked "never," but my hand faltered. It wasn't true. The truth was that the things that used to matter to me—like studying, or even spending time with my friends—sometimes felt distant.
"Often" I marked.

Q.12 How often have you felt down, depressed, or hopeless?
"Often."

Q.14 How often have you had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, or sleeping too much?
I paused here, remembering the restless nights I'd spent, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
"Nearly always."

Q.20 How often have you felt bad about yourself, or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down?

I could already hear my parents' voices in my head, telling me to be better, to do better. The constant pressure to succeed.
Nearly always. I marked it again.

The questions continued, each one more probing than the last. Each one cut deeper into the parts of me I had kept hidden for years, like a sharp tug on a thread that unraveled everything I'd built. When I reached the section about anxiety and stress, I paused longer. I knew what the answer was going to be.

Q.21 How often have you felt nervous, anxious, or on edge?
"Nearly always."

But then I got to the question that stopped me cold.

Q.34 In the past week, have you had thoughts of harming yourself or others?
I stared at the question, the words swimming before my eyes. 

I stared at the question for so long that my pen had started to tremble in my hand. Then, I slowly circled
"Often."

Q.35 Have you ever acted on these thoughts or impulses?
"Often."

Q.36 Do you have a plan for how you would harm yourself or others, should you feel the need?

"Yes" I marked.

Q.37 On whom do you act on these impulses?
(write in words)

I paused, my thoughts racing, before finally writing.
"Myself."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I took a deep breath, folded the paper and sealed it in the envelope. I filled out the details on the envelope on the front page and dropped in the box.

I left the clinic, the cold air hitting me like a slap across the face, making me scrunch up my nose in response.

I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact. For a moment, I debated reaching out. But then I decided against it. Instead, I drove to the park—he'd probably be there, jogging, working out, or doing whatever else he does.

I sit in the car, thinking about the session, when i see a very familiar figure jogging in the same direction. I followed him from a distance, keeping my car at a steady pace behind him. He ran for a solid five minutes, and I couldn't help but admire his stamina. I eventually rolled down my window, my fingers hovering over the horn.

"Minho."
I called once he was startled, pulling his earbuds out and looking over his shoulder, confusion flashing across his face.

"I knew I felt someone following me," he said, his tone light.
"I thought it was going to be a sasaeng."

"Out of all the things you could've thought it would be,"
I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Yeah, well, it's more common than you think when you're a public figure."
 He sassed, his grin widening.

I rolled my eyes in response.
"Are you getting in, or not?"

"I still have a mile left,"
 he replied, his voice casual.

"I was going to offer you a ride," I teased,
"but not anymore. Since you've got that mile left, let me help you out."
I mockingly frowned, waiting for his reaction.

He froze for a moment. "Wait, what? Hey!"
He started walking toward the car, but I already rolled the window up, cutting him off.

I hit the gas, accelerating just enough to stay ahead of him. His pace remained steady, his long legs eating up the distance. I knew he wouldn't stop, so I drove a little further until I reached a grocery store.

I parked and stepped out, heading inside to grab a couple of bottles of cold water. After making him run after me, I figured he deserved at least that much.

I waited by my car, my eyes scanning the road for his figure. It wasn't long before I saw him, his strong strides drawing closer. As he approached, I stretched out my arm, offering him the water.

Instead of taking it, he did something I hadn't expected.

Without warning, Minho closed the distance between us and pulled me into a tight, unexpected hug. His arms wrapped around me with such intensity that it nearly knocked the breath out of me. I froze, caught off guard, unsure of how to react.

"Uhh—"

"For trying," he murmured, his voice so warm. "I'm so proud of you, Hana."

Even though I couldn't see his face, I could hear the smile in his words.

I have hugged him before, but this felt different—strange, out of place, almost like it wasn't supposed to happen. My heart was pounding in my chest, my legs weak beneath me.

"Eww, you're sweaty," I laughed, gently pushing him away.

Minho just grinned, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "You're welcome."
He took the water from my hands and gulped it down it once.

"Jesus, did you forget to bring your own water bottle?"

"I may or may not have gotten it stolen or lost. I swear I kept it near a ledge like I always did, but when I came back, it was gone."

"Someone must've been thirsty."

"Well I hope they needed it more than me, or maybe they dint have someone thoughtful like you to get me cold water."

I side eyed him,
"Why are you so cheesy today?"
I laughed.

"Do you want to take a walk?"
He blurted.
"I don't want to go home so soon."

"It's already 6:45 PM. We haven't cooked anything to eat either, and what about Soonie, Soongie, Dori?"

"Okay we can go home, cook dinner, eat and then we can go take a walk."

"We'll see about that."

"Oh we'll see about that?"
He mocked and rolled his eyes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

We sat in the car, Minho in the passenger seat again and he slumped into the seat as soon he got in. I dint speak much, there was nothing to say. He scrolled on his phone till we reached home. Every now and then, he'd glance over at me, but I didn't look his way. I couldn't.

As we neared my place, the dim streetlights cast a soft glow on the road, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, but neither of us moved.

"Did something go wrong at therapy?"
Minho's voice broke the silence, low and tentative. He didn't sound like he was pushing for details, just... concerned.

I stayed quiet for a moment, my hands still gripping the steering wheel. The question hung between us, and I wasn't sure how to answer it.

"No," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"It's just... a lot. It's more than I expected. But nothing went wrong, really. I'm supposed to... tell her everything, be completely vulnerable in front of her, tell her my deepest, darkest secrets."

I let the words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on me. It was like I was unraveling, piece by piece, and I wasn't sure if I was ready for the full picture to be seen—especially by someone I barely knew, someone whose job it was to pry into the parts of me I'd spent years hiding.

Minho didn't speak right away, and for a moment, I almost regretted saying anything at all. But then I heard the soft sound of his breath, a quiet exhale that felt almost like a sigh of relief, like he understood without needing to know the specifics.

"We knew it wasn't going to be easy. And it isn't. Being expected to just lay everything out there, without knowing if it'll make you feel better or worse. It's not easy, Hana."

I stared out of the windshield, trying to calm the storm inside me. It felt so hard, yet... so simple, the way he put it. But somehow, the idea of being honest with myself—truly honest—was like facing a mountain I had no idea how to climb.

 "I don't know if I can be that vulnerable."
 I whispered, almost to myself.

"No one else needs to know, I don't want to know unless you're okay with telling me, although that doesn't mean I don't wonder what exactly happened with you. Just this one person Hana, no one else needs to know."

I swallowed, my heart aching with a kind of rawness I wasn't used to. For a brief moment, I considered telling him—telling him everything I was feeling, everything I was scared of. But the words stuck in my throat, caught between my fear of burdening him and the need to let it all out.

After a few moments, Minho stretched and broke the quiet again with a light chuckle.
"Okay, I'm starving. If we don't go inside now, I might just eat the seat cushions."
Minho's hand reached out then, resting on the edge of the console, close enough that if I wanted to, I could touch it. But I unbuckled myself, fanned my face so the tears would go away.

I couldn't help but laugh, the sound shaky but real.
"I'm sure they're delicious."

He grinned, and the familiar glint of teasing returned to his eyes.
"Or maybe I could cook something delicious. Might be the best thing you've ever tasted."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A week later:

A week went by since my first session. It was only last Sunday on my second session, when we gave whatever I was going through an official diagnosis.

"I'm sorry, but after calculating you're score, it's too high Hana."

Too high?

"I've reviewed your assessment and based on your score, the symptoms you're describing—feeling constantly anxious, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness—it all suggests that you're struggling with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder."

Oh.

"I'm going to start you on antidepressants, something to help manage your mood and anxiety, and we'll monitor how you respond. It's not a quick fix, but it's a necessary step for fixing you. It can take several weeks to feel the effects of these medications and it may take several months to settle on the right dose of medication."

"Don't worry, we'll monitor how you're feeling, and if something isn't working, we'll adjust it. This isn't a one-size-fits-all situation, but it's a step in the right direction."

But surprisingly, she didn't address the self harm.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

a/n: what happened to my writing all of a sudden?