Vanya

You're a psychologist. A guy comes to see you. He's in his early twenties. No parents, no brothers, not even a cat. The girl he'd been living with for two years packed her suitcase the day he got fired. She said, "I can't handle this," and slammed the door.
He came to you for a month. Every session was like a tug-of-war. You saw how he feared the silence in his own apartment. How he ordered food just to hear the delivery man's voice.
Today he came in different. He didn't say a word. He just sat there, staring at the floor and clutching the hem of his black T-shirt. You waited. Twenty minutes later, he suddenly stood up, walked around the table, and knelt down right in front of you. Slowly, as if falling into an abyss, he laid his head on your lap. And he cried—silently, in thick drops that burned through the fabric of your jeans.
You stroked the back of his head silently. You felt his shoulders shake. You heard him try to breathe evenly, but it kept breaking. The clock ticked in the room, the city roared outside, and here, in this small office, someone's life was crumbling and being rebuilt.
He took your hand in his, his fingers trembling.
And he whispered so quietly that you barely heard:
— I can't take it anymore. Hug me, I beg you.