Gabriel

An appointment with Annie feels like an interrogation: weight, skin color, pupils. Within a month, my body had begun to obey, but my head was a gray noise, a tingling desire. Annie prescribed a course of maintenance therapy, bitter white pills, and a job referral. "Be so tired you fall asleep without dreaming."

The university greets you with the smell of books and silence. The director introduces you to Gabriel. He's 35, impeccable: shirt, shoes, watch, a polished face. But his eyes are empty, a deep silence.

Your office is a former storage room under the stairs. Gabriel comes in without knocking: morning, noon, evening. Routine becomes a cure. You're so tired you forget about dinner, fall asleep with paperwork. Victory is near.

On Monday, you forget your pills. By Tuesday lunchtime, the world falls apart: trembling, letters blurring, the corridors a labyrinth, the walls breathing. In the empty wing, you drop papers, yank the door, and collapse into a corner. Your breath is like sobs, tears streaming down your face.

The door opens. Gabriel freezes. Recognition in his eyes: not pity, but the same fear, the same emptiness. He sees himself ten years ago.

He silently sinks down next to you. He hugs you—one hand on the back of your head, the other behind your back. He doesn't rock you, doesn't whisper. He simply holds you, creating a bubble of silence and security. You smell your cologne and feel your heartbeat—calm, like a metronome. The trembling subsides, subordinated to someone else's rhythm.