The dinner table was a theater of normalcy where Elias played his part with practiced precision. Around him, the air was thick with the scent of roasted chicken and the melodic hum of his family's laughter. His girlfriend, Maya, sat beside him, her hand resting warmly on his knee. To anyone watching, Elias was a lucky man—surrounded by love, stability, and light.
But inside, the light was failing.
Elias felt like a ghost haunting his own life. While his father discussed the stock market and his mother laughed at a story Maya told, Elias was drowning in a silent, static grayness. It wasn't just sadness; it was a profound displacement. He felt as though he were viewing his life through a thick pane of glass—he could see the movement, hear the muffled sounds, but he couldn't feel the warmth of the room.
The Invisible Divide
For Elias, mental instability wasn't a sudden explosion; it was a slow, agonizing erosion. His mind was a labyrinth of intrusive thoughts and paralyzing static. He looked at Maya, who was glowing under the dining room chandelier, and felt a pang of guilt so sharp it nearly took his breath away. She loved a version of him that was currently on life support. She loved the boy who went hiking on weekends and talked about the future. She didn't know the boy who stared at the ceiling for four hours every morning, unable to remember how to be a person.
"Elias? Don't you think so?" Maya asked, her eyes bright with a question he hadn't heard.
"Yeah," Elias forced a smile, the muscles in his face feeling like rusty wires. "Absolutely."
The lie hung in the air, invisible to them but heavy as lead to him. He was a master of the "hollow yes."
The Weight of Being Seen
After dinner, the family moved to the living room. The closeness felt predatory. His mother's hand on his shoulder felt like a mountain he had to carry. Their happiness was a language he no longer spoke, yet they kept shouting it at him, expecting a translation.
He retreated to the balcony under the guise of needing air. The night was cold, and for the first time all evening, the temperature outside matched the temperature within.
Elias knew his family loved him. He knew Maya adored him. But their love felt like a spotlight on a crime scene—it only highlighted how broken the landscape really was. He felt more alone in their presence than he did when he was actually by himself. When he was alone, he didn't have to perform. He could simply be the void. With them, he had to be a monument to their expectations.
The Silent Scream
He looked at the reflection in the glass door. He saw a young man with a life people envied. But behind his eyes, a storm was raging that no one could see. His brain felt like a radio tuned between stations—constant, jarring white noise that made it impossible to catch the melody of the world.
Maya stepped out onto the balcony, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. "You're so quiet tonight," she whispered. "I missed you today."
I'm right here, he wanted to say. But I'm also miles beneath the surface, and I don't think I'm coming back up for air.
Instead, he turned around