And here I am again with another song based one shot from my Mileven playlist

This one shot is a bit longer than the other ones and contains some Mom and Son moments, along with some Mileven at the end. 

WARNING: Talk of Depression and a death of a loved one

(Just want to make it clear: I am not making fun of people with depression, or just the disorder by itself. It's not something to joke about. It is a serious thing that people struggle with on a daily basis. I would never, ever, make fun of something like that. This chapter was just an idea that came to mind after reading something similar to it. I hope no one gets offended by anything, and if you do, I am truly sorry. I did look up some things on it to make sure all the doctor's questions were accurate, as were Mike's answers. Again, not poking fun, just a harmless chapter for readers to read because we all enjoy some angst every once in a while)

With that cleared up: 

Enjoy!

"But you don't have to go through this on your own

'Cause everybody needs a little help sometimes

Everybody needs someone to call on

Everybody gets a little lost inside..." 

----1987----

"That's the third time this week you haven't eaten, Micheal," Karen says, setting down her fork as she watches her son from across the table, picking at his food with his own fork instead of actually eating it. "Not to mention how you've been acting the past month. When's the last time you've hung out with Lucas? Dustin? Will? Mike, this isn't healthy." She glances at her husband, Ted, to see if he has anything to say about their son's behavior but he's too busy enjoying his chicken to care, and she sighs, glancing back at Mike. "Well?" 

"I just don't feel well," Mike mumbles, pushing himself away from the table and standing up, sauntering toward the staircase, ignoring his mom's worried voice calling out to him to at least eat his dinner. His feet travel up the steps, feeling heavy sand bags, and he sighs when he reaches the top of the stairs. Blinking back tears that are threatening to spill, Mike's fingers wrap around the cool doorknob to his bedroom, twisting and pushing the door open, closing it once he's safely inside. 

His eyes travel around the room, eyebrows furrowed, taking in his twin bed with deep blue comforter, white walls covered in posters and pictures, the desk to his right, and the slightly ajar closet door. The skin between his brows pinch in confusion as he walks over to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it, his breath hitching in his chest. An orange glow makes it into his line of vision and his head turns to the right, his eyes catching the beam of afternoon sunlight, but it's too bright and he stands to draw the curtains closed. Releasing a breath, Mike flops into his back against his bed, gaze trained on the ceiling. 

He doesn't know what it is, what this feeling inside him is, or why he's feeling like this. It was unusual, foreign to him. He constantly felt winded, vision blurred by tears, a constant feeling of worry, lights and the sun being to bright, a heavy feeling upon his chest, sadness overtaking his body, and he had no idea why the hell it was happening. It wasn't like he had a bad life; he had a nice home, food on the table, a wonderful mother, two great sisters (even though one was away at college for the time being), and his dad had even started to step into play as his father instead of sitting around all day. There was no reason to feel this way, right?

Racking his brain for anything saddening in the past weeks, months, or even years, Mike could only think of one thing. Around a month ago, he (and the rest of his family) had received a devastating phone call from the nursing home in Fort Wayne. His Nana had passed away in her sleep after five months of being diagnosed with cancer. She had lost her fight. Of course, Mike had cried, it was his Nana after all, and he'd cried at her funeral. But then the crying stop and he was rid of all emotions. 

After her death, Mike had shut everyone out, locking himself behind the safe walls of his bedroom and he'd been having trouble getting food into his body without it coming right back up when images of his grandmother flashed through his brain. Her bright brown eyes, loving smile, warm embraces, her bad but hilarious jokes, her soothing old voice telling him everything was going to be okay. Her beautiful white hair before it started to fall out do to the chemotherapy she was getting, her healthy olive skin before it started to pale the older she got, the firm grip her hand had before it started to weaken as she started to lose muscle. 

She had been the kindest woman he'd ever known, the most understanding and welcoming person. Out of everyone in Mike's family, his Nana had been the most supportive of them all, always believing he could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it. She never doubted his abilities, never made him feel bad for being who he is, never telling him he wasn't good enough because he didn't play any stupid sports. She had always been there for him, always there to talk and reassure him everything was okay. 

Once he had gotten his license, Mike had driven from Hawkins all the way to Fort Wayne every week to hang out with his Nana at the nursing home. He'd brought her coffee, gotten her the new book of the series she'd been reading (she practically cried from happiness), played checkers and uno with her, filled her in on what was going on at home and school and accepted the advice she'd given him. One time he had taken El to meet his Nana and they spent the whole afternoon at the small cafe down the street, exchanging stories. He'd even held her hand at the doctor's office when they started giving her chemo, and he sat right next to her as she got her head shaved. He'd even started volunteering at the nursing home twice a week just to help his Nana out when her strength began to slowly go away. They'd gotten really close during those five months. 

And just to have her taken away, just like that? Without a warning? Without a goodbye? It just wasn't fair. None of it was fair. It wasn't fair that cancer had taken everything away from her; her hair, her strength, her dark skin, her life. And it wasn't fair that he got to stay there, living his life while she was just... gone. But, Mike understood it was just the circle of life, and that people had to go, but that didn't mean he couldn't grieve. 

Mike snaps back to reality and reaches a hand up to wipe the tears away. 

He tries to keep his cries buried deep within, telling himself now isn't the time to be vulnerable or cry like a baby, and gets ready for bed even though it's not even seven yet. That's another thing he's been doing: sleeping way too much, going to bed early but still sleeping in later, being held captive in the dreams that come to him. Dreams of his Nana. Well, more like flashbacks since the dreams that come have actually happened, and he wakes up crying each time and it only makes him feel worse. 

After exchanging his jeans and T-shirt for sweatpants and a crew neck, Mike quietly opens his bedroom door and tip toes into the bathroom across the hall, slipping inside and shutting the door. The light switches on with a flip of his finger, and he blinks rapidly at the sudden brightness and he has to fight down the urge just to brush his teeth in the dark. While he brushes his teeth, Mike takes a second to glance at himself in the mirror and noticeably winces at how terrible he looks; dark circles around his eyes despite the amount of sleep he's been settings, sunken cheeks making his cheekbones even more prominent, bloodshot eyes from crying, blotchy cheeks from the tears, and chapped/cracked lips. 

Swallowing down upcoming bile, Mike tears his eyes away from the mirror, set his toothbrush back down into the holder, and rinses out his mouth before heading back into his room, almost running into Holly on his way. He mutters a, "Sorry," before he shuts the door, sighing as the pain in his head decreases due to the darkness his room holds. 

Mike slides beneath the covers of his bed, pulling his knees up to his chest so his feet don't dangle uncomfortably off the end of the bed. He closes his eyes as his head hits the pillow, breathing in and out slowly, letting the warmth of his blanket swallow him whole, and sooner than later, his breaths are evened out and he's fast asleep 

-----

The next morning he's woken by a knock on his door. 

His eyes slowly blink open, and he scrunches up his face as the bright sunlight beams into the bedroom, illuminating his room in a soft warm glow. Squinting, Mike sits up in bed, his back against the headboard, and calls out for the person on the opposite end of his door to come inside. 

The door slowly opens and his mother, dressed in jeans and a light pink T-shirt, her blonde hair tied into a ponytail, walks inside, arms crossed. She arches an eyebrow and unfolds one arm to gesture for him to get out of bed. "Come on. You're coming with me to run some errands. It's time you get out of the house," she says and in a blink of an eye, she's gone back downstairs, leaving the door open in her wake. 

Mike lets out a small groan and throws his head back against the wall, not phasing as it makes a thud sound. He really didn't want to get out of bed and leave the house, his only source of comfort now days. He felt safe within the walls of his home, and if he left, the safe feeling would also leave him. But, his mom wouldn't settle until he was in the car next of him, so using all the will power he has, he pulls the blankets off him, stands, and leaves his room to go downstairs. 

In the kitchen, he sees Holly sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal, her small legs swinging absentmindedly beneath her chair. Her blonde hair was up in her usual pigtails, and her blue eyes were bright with happiness, a small on her face as she munched on a spoonful of lucky charms. His eyes drift to the island where he senses someone's stare, and his eyes meet with identical ones to his. 

"What?" He asks his mother who just shakes her head as she watches him stalk across the kitchen, opening a cupboard and taking out a box of cheerios, but once he sees the front of it and the picture of the bowl full of the cereal, his stomach twists, and he slides it back inside, closing the cabinet door. 

"You need to eat," His mom tells him as he settles for a glass of water. 

"Not hungry." He swallows down the last of the water and sets his cup in the sink next to the rest of the dirty dishes and tries to go back up stairs, but of course his mom has to stop him from doing so once again. 

"Micheal," she says sternly and he turns around, raising an eyebrow. "You're not going back up there, you hear me? I told you, you're coming to run some errands with me. Holly's staying here with your father." 

Mike frowns as he watches her walk over to the door and grab her keys out of the bowl that rests on top of the bowl beside the door. "What? We're leaving right now?" She nods and heads out the door so he grabs his shoes, quickly slips them on, and follows her out the door, closing it tightly behind him, and slides into the passenger seat of the his mom's car. "Why so early? I just got up!" He exclaims once his seat belt is buckled. 

"We're already running late," she mutters under her breath as she backs out of the driveway, causing Mike even more confusion, but he decides to stay quiet, leaning back into the seat, crossing his arms, and biting his lip to keep it from wobbling, because honestly? He has no idea why he feels like crying right at that moment. 

The ride is quiet, a comfortable silence, and the music playing quietly on the radio lightens the mood just a tad bit, and Mike finds himself relaxing. They're just going to run errands for a couple hours, not even, and then he'll be back and safe inside. He stares out the window as she drives, watching the cars, trees, buildings, and houses pass by, his brown eyes following them as they go, trying anything to keep him relaxed. Though, his mom makes an unexpected left turn, the opposite way of the grocery store, and he turns his head back to the wind shield, eyes widening when realization dawns on him. 

A large building looms in front of them as his mom parks the car in the parking lot, pulling the keys out of the ignition and stuffing them in her purse before opening her car door, giving him a look that clearly read: come on, let's go. 

Mike hesitantly unbuckles his seat belt and steps out into the warm summer air, his gaze never leaving the building as he did so, as if it would open up and swallow him whole. He follows his mom absentmindedly, stepping through the automatic sliding glass doors, and shudders at the sudden cool air that hits him upon entering. He's looking around cautiously, just waiting for a doctor to take one look at him and assume something serious is wrong with him when there so clearly is not. 

He steps inside the elevator with his mom, staying silent as she presses the button with a big black '3' printed onto it, and the doors closed. Mike takes deep and even breaths as the small space seems to close in on him, and he even ends up closing his eyes tight as the elevator shoots upward, making his stomach drop. As the doors open, so do his eyes, and he releases a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, but his shoulders stay tense as his mom leads him into a waiting room with yellow walls, green furniture, baby toys and books, magazine, and a fish tank for kids to look at. 

She gives him a stern look, tells him to sit down, and goes to the front desk to check him in while he gets situated. He sits, watching his mother converse quietly with the desk lady, glancing back at him once in a while but looking away just as quickly. A few minutes later, she comes back and takes a seat to his left, opening her purse and offering him a piece of gum which he respectively declines, not wanting to place anything in his mouth. 

"Why are we here?" He asks her in a whisper after a little kid, holding onto their mother's hand, gives him an odd look as he passes him. 

"Because," is all she says before returning to flipping through a women's magazine. 

"I'm fine," he insisted stubbornly. 

Giving him a look through the corner of her eye, his mom shut her magazine, slaps it against her knee, and turns in her chair to face him, and he flinches back by the stern look in her eyes, just a tad bit intimidated. "No, you're not, Micheal," she says quietly, her voice serious, "You haven't had any friends over since who knows when. You haven't even talked to your girlfriend. How do you think she feels?" 

That shuts him up and he slumps back down in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, lips pursed, and a glare fixed at nothing in particular. He's just angry. Angry at the world. Angry that his Nana was taken away from him so suddenly. Angry that her death has caused him to feel this way all the time, whether he likes it or not. Angry that he can't even have friends over because of his behavior, that he can't force food into his body without it coming right back up. Infuriated that he can't even get himself to pick up the damn phone and call his girlfriend of three years that he's okay and still loves her. When was the last time he's spoken to her? Two weeks ago? Three weeks? A month? He doesn't know. All he is sure of is that it wasn't recently. 

And if he's being honest: no, he hasn't thought much about how his behavior, his emotions are affecting people around him. His mom has been worried sick about him since day one but hasn't done much about it, that much he knew. But his friends...they're probably just as worried, if not more, because it isn't like him to shut them all out suddenly, or for this long. Usually, he would have talked to them by now, explaining what's been going on with him, but he hasn't and that's probably killing his friends. And then there's El who's probably been fretting over him since the day he stopped calling her, the day after the funeral. She may even been thinking he doesn't love her anymore, that he's gotten sick of her, that he's moved on, and that tears him apart to just think about it. 

When his name's called, his mom and he stand up and follow the nurse through the door and down the hallway, turning to the left to enter room 6. Mike sits on the bed covered in paper, kicking his legs back and forth mindlessly, as he bites down on his lip so hard he can start to taste blood. 

"Take your shoes off please," the nurse tells him softly as she starts to tinker with the weighing scale. "I'm just going to check your weight then your height." She steps back so he can step onto the scale, waiting for the numbers to rearrange themselves. The black numbers flash 110 Ibs, and the nurse peers over his shoulder, nods slightly, and turns around to enter it into the computer and though she doesn't say anything, Mike understands that he's not healthy according to his weight. The nurse leans over and mutters something to his mom and he sees her nod, her brown eyes trained on him.  "Now," the nurse begins as she opens the door, "let's go check your height, yeah?" 

"Um, sure," Mike mumbles and steps off onto the scale goes after her into the hallway, stopping in front of a built in tape measure against the wall. She instructs him to stand his back to it, straight up, heels against the wall, and he does as he's told, waiting until she pulls the marking stick down to the top of his head before stepping away. 

"Six feet, one inch," she informs him as they're walking back into the room so his mom can hear as well, and she enters that into the computer right next to his weight. "Have a seat." 

Mike pulls himself back up onto the table, the leg swings resuming, and he follows instruction as she checks his heart, breathing, and blood pressure. He watches, only half paying attention, as she types everything into the computer once more, logs out, and he faintly hears her telling them the doctor would be in shortly before heading out the door, shutting it quietly behind her and soon, it was just him and his mom once again. 

He can feel her gaze on him, but he won't meet it, keeping his eyes trained on the floor and he swallows thickly when she clears her throat, signaling she's going to start talking. "Micheal, I'm sorry, but I knew if I had told you, you never would have came," she apologized and he lifted his eyes to look at her from across the room. Her eyebrows were knitted, corners of her lips tugged down, and the wrinkles on her forehead seemed to deepen with her frown. "And I'm just worried about you, because this- this isn't like you. You don't just shut yourself out like this, and you won't talk to me, or anyone, you won't even call El so she can't fill me in, and-" 

"Mom, I'm fine." 

"No, you're not." 

Rolling his eyes, Mike sighs and leans back against the wall. "I don't need to be here." 

His mom's eyes widen. "So, what you're telling me is that your behavior is normal? That you keeping yourself locked away in your room all summer is okay? That not eating because you simply don't 'feel good' is healthy? No, Mike, you're not okay, and I'm worried." 

"Worried about what?" He asks, an edge to his voice. 

"I don't know what's wrong with you!" She exclaims rather loudly, exasperated, and her fingers curl around her purse to keep her grounded, to keep her calm. Well, as calm as she can manage to be in this situation. 

"What's wrong with me?" Mike questions, eyebrows arching in surprise, and he can feel anger and desperation gnawing at him, waiting to break out of the box he'd locked them inside of so they wouldn't escape. "What do you mean by 'what's wrong with you'? There's nothing wrong with me! I'm perfectly fine! I'm not- I'm not-" 

He's cut off by the door opening and the words die in his throat as his doctor, who is also Holly's doctor, steps inside with Mike's files, closing the door after him. "Good morning, Wheeler's," he greets as he sit down on his spinning chair, reaching out and pumping some hand sanitizer onto his palm, rubbing his hands together swiftly. "How are you feeling?" The question is directed at Mike and he racks his brain because, really, how is he feeling? 

"Um, tired. Really tired," Mike answers truthfully. 

"How's your sleep?" His doctor- Dr. Andrews as his name tag says- asks. 

Mike runs his fingers through his hair, an attempt to calm his racing nerves, a habit he had picked up since high school had started three years ago. "Good? I think? I go to bed early, sleep in late, but still feel bone tired throughout the day. I- I don't know why." 

"Hm," Dr. Andrews hums as he types his answers into the computer. "Have you been eating?" 

Seeing his mother's raised eyebrows from the corner of his eyes, Mike just decides to be honest because the sooner they figure this out, the sooner he can get out of here. "No...not really. Uh, I'll eat once in a while but, I can't- I can't keep it down? Food just hasn't been agreeing with me for like the past month and I'm not sure why..." He trails off. 

Pursing his lips, Dr. Andrew spins around in his chair so he's facing Mike, his face serious, and he wrings his hands on his lip as he asks, "How's life at home going?" Which Mike answers with a positive answer because it really is going good. Things with his dad have been much better so there's not much to complain about. "Alright, are you dating anybody?" 

"Yeah..," his voice is small as he speaks, "I think so.." 

"You think so?" 

"I haven't really talked to her... or anyone for that matter." 

"Why not?" Dr. Andrews raises an eyebrow, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

Mike runs a hand through his hair. "Um, I just don't want to talk to anybody, I guess. I, um, like to be alone recently, unbothered. I don't really know why... I guess everything has just been making me irritated or sad? Yeah, I'll feel sad at random times and I don't understand why and it's really, really frustrating because I don't like feeling this way and- and I don't know how to make it stop or go away and-" 

"Hey, hey, hey, calm down, alright? You're okay," Dr. Andrews tells him in a soft, but low, voice, his eyes a bit wide, his hand outstretched a few inches in front of him, bobbing up in the air as if to demonstrate Mike's emotions lowering themselves to nothing. "And how do these feelings make you feel?" 

"Uh, trapped?" He answers, though it comes out more as a question as he watches the doctor's finger tips press down onto the keys, typing what he says into the computer. "Like I can't escape the exhaustion they put on me no matter how much sleep I get, and then I can't concentrate on anything. They're like forming a wall around me and I can't break through. I don't really know how to explain it." 

"No, that was a great explanation." Dr. Andrew's fingers still on the keyboard as he asks his next question, "You say you can't concentrate, so how's your motivation?" 

"No," Mike easily answers. 

Humming in response, Dr. Andrews types a few things into the computer. 

In the mean time, Mike drifts his vision over to his mother who's watching him carefully, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, a nervous habit he'd seen her do on many, many occasions. Her hands are folded tightly on top of her purse that rests on her lap, her thumb and pointer finger twisting the ring on her left ring finger repeatedly, another nervous habit he's seen her do. 

"In the past two weeks, how often have you felt down, depressed, or hopeless?" 

Mike snaps back to reality at the voice of his doctor and he turns his attention back to him, his mind slowly processing the question. How often had he been feeling this way? His Nana passed a little over a month ago, and grieving was normal so that didn't count, but a couple weeks after the funeral, the feelings returned for now apparent reason. "Um, a lot. Almost everyday. Like I said, I can't seem to escape the feelings. They've made me like their host." 

"Have you had any thoughts of suicide?" He asks once he's done typing Mike's answer. 

"No," Mike tells him quickly, but after noticing the look both his mom and the doctor give him because of his fast response, he decides to evaluate, "I haven't thought of... you know. And I've never self harmed. But everyone thinks of death every once in a while don't they?" He sighs as they raise their eyebrows. "Like, everyone wonders what it would be like not to be here anymore at least once. So, no, I have not thought of actually committing, but I have thought about not being here anymore. Like if I spontaneously passed in my sleep, I wouldn't have to deal with the problems the world sets on my shoulders, or the grief of loved ones leaving. Everything would just be easier." 

Dr. Andrews clears his throat, nods, and types that into the computer before questioning, "What do you mean you wouldn't have to deal with problems or grief of loved ones who passed? Are you dealing with anything right now?" 

Mike swallows the forming lump in his throat, really not wanting to talk about his late grandmother but if he wanted answers, he might have to. He tosses around certain thoughts in his head; what he wants to say and what he doesn't, and he decides with, "My grandma passed away a little over a month ago. She was always there for me when no one else was. We were pretty close, and once I got my license, I visited her at least once a week, and even started to volunteer at her nursing home once she was diagnosed with cancer. And then, and then one day, she was just gone. I never got to say goodbye." He hated how his voice cracked, making him seem vulnerable, but he continued, "but grieving's normal. I was fine after her funeral, starting to get over it, but then these emotions just washed over me a couple weeks later and I have no idea why." 

Not saying a thing, Dr. Andrews types that all into the computer before asking Mike his next question, "Do you prefer staying home rather than going out and doing new things?" and types everything Mike says.

"Yes!" He can't express this enough. "I feel safe at home. I like to be inside the walls of my bedroom, away from the horrors of the world. Away from the people. Away from everything, I just feel safe and content. I used to like going out, but ever since feeling this way, I just feel better staying home and being alone." 

"Have you experienced anything like this in the past?" 

"No, not really. I mean, I've always had a bit of anxiety and from age twelve to sixteen, I suffered from PTSD because of some stuff that happened, but I've never felt so... unhappy." Mike blinks upcoming tears out of his eyes. "I don't- I don't really remember the last time I was truly happy, like I wasn't always like this, but at some point I felt numb, like something wasn't right, and now it's all just coming out of me."  

"Alright. Thank you, Mike, for answering these questions." Dr. Andrews gives him a tight lipped smile as he stands from his chair. "I have to go discuss your answers with some people, and I'll be back shortly." Then he's out the door, leaving Mike and his mom alone once again. 

They sit in a comfortable silence, not meeting each other's eyes, and Mike can tell she's a bit upset that he'd never talked to her about it once. That he's been bottling everything up for weeks, not even talking to friends. He wraps his arms around his middle, giving himself a comforting hug, and leans back against the wall, eyes closing as he lets out a deep breath he had been holding in the whole appointment. 

"Why didn't you talk to me?"

His eyes snap open, focusing on his mom, only to see the tears in her eyes. That only made him feel worse, knowing that he had hurt her feelings and worried her. Because, whether he wants to admit it or not, Mike knew these weren't just some "dark mood" or something everyone can just brush off as if it is nothing. His answer about death should have made that clear. No normal person just sits there, thinking about dying, and actually be satisfied about it, and it probably freaked his mom out a bit. 

"I didn't want to worry you." 

"Micheal!" She exclaims, eyes wide, mouth gaping. "You think not telling me wouldn't make me, worried? Really? I've been worried ever since Nana's funeral! You haven't been eating, going out, talking to anyone, sleeping way too much, having mood swings! That worries the shit out of me, Mike. You should have talked to me so I at least knew what was going on!" 

"I'm sorry," Mike whispers, his voice small. 

She nods rapidly. "You should be sorry." 

"Yeah, that makes me feel a whole lot better," Mike says sarcastically with an eye roll. 

His mom sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again. "I'm your mom, okay? I'm going to worry about you, regardless if you tell me or not. It's my job to worry, and I will do so when my son isn't functioning correctly, alright?" 

"I know. I'm sorry." 

"It's alright. We just need to figure out how to get you back to yourself," she says and he can tell that she's much calmer now by the ways her shoulders relax. "But until then, I just need to know if there's anything you hadn't told him, something that's been bothering you. Or anything that might be going on to make you feel this way." 

Mike blinks, a bit taken aback by the sincerity in her words and says, "I'm just sad, and angry, and irritated at everything. I feel like I can cry every second of everyday and I'm not sure why, but I want it to go away. At first, I thought it was because of Nana since I've been having these dreams of her ever since she died. I see her... in my dreams, alive and healthy. Before she got cancer and lost her hair and strength. But now, I think it's a mix of that and just a whole lot of nothing and I can't- I can't control these feelings or stop them from happening or- or-" 

"Oh, Mike," his mom whispers and stands, setting her purse down on the chair, and walks forwards until she's standing right in front of him, and wraps her arms around him in a motherly hug, and he melts right into it. "It's going to be okay. We're gonna figure this out." 

"I don't know why I can't just be happy," he cries against her shoulders, his fingers clinging to the pink fabric of her shirt for dear life. 

She pulls away, keeping him at arms length, and wipes a tear away with her thumb as she tells him, "Well, it probably doesn't help that you lock yourself in your room, doing nothing. Maybe it's time that you get together with some friends. Or you could at least call El and tell her what's going on so she understands why she's being ghosted." 

"I can't tell her," Mike says, eyes wide. 

"Why not?" His mom's face contorts into one of confusion. 

"Because she'll get all worried and freak out, and I just don't want to bother her with it." 

"Seriously, Mike?" She sighs. "Put your selflessness away for a minute and just let people care for you, because everyone needs a little bit of help sometimes, alright?" 

Mike's about to reply to that when the door opens and his doctor steps inside with the same clipboard as before. His mom squeezes her arm once before sitting back down in the chair across the room, and he wipes away any remaining tears, and listens in as Dr. Andrews explains what's been going on, a grim expression on his face. He's talking in a stern town, the words leaving his mouth slowly, as if he was being careful not to trigger anything, and Mike finds it hard to concentrate, but the moment the word 'depression' leaves his mouth, Mike feels like he's been hit in the face with a brick. 

"...though, it's not very serious so there will be no medication needed," Dr. Andrews informs his mother, not paying attention to the surprise written across Mike's face. "However, I am suggesting seeing a therapist once every two weeks in Indianapolis. I can set an appointment for Mike next week if you'd like. That could possibly help him release the stress of holding everything inside. As for what Mike, himself, can do, is get out of that house, get his motivation back, and set alarms in the morning so he gets up earlier. Hang out with friends to distract himself from all the worries, go on a date with that girlfriend, do whatever he has to do to be happy." 

His mom thanks the doctor and they set an appointment for next Wednesday, much to Mike's disagreement that he doesn't need a doctor, and once everything is all set in stone, they're walking back out to the car in an awkward silence. 

Mike's arms are crosses, jaw clenched, and his eyes are cast straight in front of him as he refuses to even glance at his mother. He's more angry than 'depressed' now, angry that he hadn't even gotten a say in if he wanted to even see a therapist or not, which would have been not seeing one since he's fine. Angry that he's diagnosed with (not very serious, yet) depression, a label that practically defines him now. And he just wishes everything could go back to the way they were a few months ago, back to normal. 

They slip into the car, buckle their seat belts, and his mom's turning on the car and pulling back out onto the main road when she finally decides to speak up, "You're going to see that therapist whether you like it or not, Mike. It will be good for you." Her fingers are gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles almost pure white. 

He doesn't answer, just sits back in his seat, looking out the windshield, and tries not to either cry or shout, he's not sure which one, because the last thing he wants to do is talk about his apparent "problems" and the mental illness he's been "labeled" with to some stranger sitting behind the desk that offers a stress ball to their patients every other second. 

The cars pulled into the driveway and Mike's out of it before it's even parked. He ignores his mom's reprimanding voice behind him as he opens the door, stepping inside, and kicking off his tennis shoes before fast walking towards the staircase. But, unfortunately, someone grabs his arm and he spins around, an unimpressed look upon his face.

His mother's in front of him, the same expression she's worn all day painted onto her face, her chest heaving with ever breath since, if he were to guess, she'd chased him inside the house in attempt to talk to him.   "We need to talk. Sit," she commands and he obeys her, taking a seat on one of the stools beneath the island, watching as she walks around it, crossing her arms, and leaning forward, her face only a foot away from his. "First of all, you have a diagnosis we can't just ignore. Second, you are seeing that therapist, understood?" He nods, not mentioning that she already said that in the car. "Good. Lastly, you at least need to start eating regularly again because it's not healthy not to. Do I make myself clear?" 

"Crystal," he mumbles before pushing himself away and heading back up to his room, ignoring Holly when she stepped out of her room and waved to him. Opening his door, he steps inside and immediately closes it before flopping down onto his bed, pulling the comforter up to his chest, arms above, resting at his sides. He stares up at the ceiling, thoughts staying quiet so he can just be. 

A few minutes pass and Mike faintly hears his mother talking briefly on the phone down stairs but it's too far away so he can't make out who she's actually talking to, and it takes all his willpower not to pick up the phone on his bedside table to listen in. But, that didn't stop him from straining his ears and trying to hear through the other noises around the house, but another ten minutes and her voice went quiet. 

He doesn't move for another hour, just lays there, his mind black with no thoughts or memories or anything, his body numb of all emotions at the current time. Mike briefly considers reading or writing, but immediately shuts that idea down when he doesn't have the motivation to move. He barely even notices his door opening then shutting quietly, and the small figure in the corner of his eyes moving towards his bed, setting a plate of something down on the nightstand. But when he does, Mike doesn't even lift his eyes to see who it was, but he could give a good guess. 

Turns out, his guess was accurate, because his mom or sister doesn't just lift the blanket and slide in beside him. El wraps her arms around his middle, thumbs rubbing against his sides, and her head nestles against his chest. Her legs tangle with his and his heart squeezes painfully within his chest because he hadn't realized how much he missed her. 

Mike moves then, scooting down so they're even in height, and turns his head so he can bury his face in her curls, breathing in her familiar vanilla scent, and he can feel her smiling against his neck at his sudden display of affection. 

A few more minutes pass by before El lifts her face out of the crook of his neck and cranes her own to press a sweet kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering for a couple extra seconds. Once she pools away and lays her head on his, she whispers, "Your mom filled me in. Are you okay?"

He just shrugs, not wanting to talk about it just yet, and thankfully she doesn't press. 

"Just know, I love you," El voices quietly. 

At her words, he smiles. A real genuine smile. 

"'Cause everybody needs a little help sometimes

Everybody needs someone to call on

Everybody gets a little lost inside

But its alright, yeah, it's alright

I know it hurts but I swear it gets better

So don't doubt yourself, it don't last forever." 

-Someone

By: Michael Schulte 

I hope you liked that longer chapter! I did some research while writing it, and I hope no one got offended while reading. It's not, by any means, supposed to be offensive. Just like my chapter about abuse, it's more of an awareness chapter, since people do have depression, whether it is serious or not, it is a real thing. I just thought this would have been a nice idea, because I've read it in another one shot but couldn't find it (just the ending part) so I decided to write my own little version that I thought would be interesting. 

Again, I'm not poking fun at people with depression.