As I step out into the parking lot, the afternoon sun beats down relentlessly, casting long shadows across the asphalt. The air is thick and still, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes it hard to breathe. I scan the rows of cars until my eyes land on our SUV, parked under the sparse shade of a scraggly oak tree. The windows are rolled down, and the faint strains of an old rock ballad filter out—one of her favorites.

My wife sits in the driver’s seat, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, idly tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. She glances up when she sees me approaching, a small smile breaking across her face. It’s the kind of smile she reserves for moments like this—reassuring but cautious, like she’s trying to convince both of us that everything’s okay.

The engine sputters to life as she starts the vehicle, the familiar hum oddly grounding. She leans over, unlocking the doors, and fastens her seatbelt with a quick, practiced motion. I open the door, slide into the passenger seat, and immediately start adjusting it—more out of habit than necessity. The cool air from the vents feels sharp against my flushed skin, a small relief after the oppressive heat outside.

"How did it go this time?" she asks. Her tone is calm, even casual, but I catch the slight edge in her voice. She’s trying to sound neutral, but I know her too well. The undercurrent of worry is there, threading through every syllable.

I pause, letting the question hang in the air as I adjust my seatbelt. My gaze drops to my hands, which are clenched tightly in my lap. I force myself to loosen them, to take a breath. It’s not that I’m angry or frustrated with her—not even close. It’s just the sheer weight of everything Dr. Nazir unloaded on me, the avalanche of medical jargon and uncertain timelines. I need a moment to process it, to untangle the mess in my head before I can give her an answer.

The silence stretches between us, just long enough for her to notice. She shifts in her seat, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning pale.

“I met my new doctor,” I say finally, my voice steady but deliberate. I glance at her as I speak, gauging her reaction.

Her eyes widen slightly, caught off guard. “Oh?” she says, her voice a little higher now, betraying the tension she’s trying so hard to suppress. She grips the steering wheel a little harder, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm. “What did they say this time? Are we still… out of time? Out of options?”

The words tumble out in a rush, her anxiety bubbling to the surface. She’s always been the rock, the one holding us together through all of this, but moments like these remind me how much weight she’s carrying too.

I turn to face her fully, watching the flicker of fear in her eyes. It’s subtle, but it’s there—like a crack in the armor she wears every day. The weight of her expectation presses down on me, heavy and suffocating. She’s looking to me for answers, for hope, for something to hold onto.

“Actually,” I begin, keeping my tone as neutral as possible, “They have this new doctor they want me to visit up in the city. A Dr. Lindstrom. From what Dr. Nazir told me, he runs NeuroNexus.”

“NeuroNexus?” Her brow furrows for a moment before recognition lights her eyes. “Oh, you mean that high-tech company that just built that massive testing facility?” There’s a hint of curiosity in her voice, mixed with something like hope—an emotion we’ve both learned to be cautious with.

“Yeah,” I reply, pulling a sleek, black-and-green card from my pocket. The weight of the cardstock feels heavier than it should, like it’s carrying more than just contact information.

“Dr. Nazir gave me his card. They’re talking about integrating AI and virtual reality into therapy. Something about it being cutting-edge.”

Her eyes widen slightly as I hand her the card. She studies it for a moment, tracing the embossed logo with her thumb. “Well,” she asks, looking back at me, “Are they supposed to call you, or do you need to reach out?”

She knows me too well—knows how much I hate making these kinds of calls. There’s a quiet understanding in her voice, an unspoken offer to step in if I can’t bring myself to do it.

“I’m supposed to call them,” I admit, my voice quieter now. I lean back in my seat, staring out the window. “If I want to go through with it.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and my mind starts to churn. A thousand thoughts swirl at once, each more overwhelming than the last. Skepticism twists in my gut, tightening into a knot. This therapy sounds too experimental, too abstract. What if it’s just another dead end? What if it makes things worse? The doubts and fears cascade like a tidal wave, drowning out everything else.

I can feel my chest tightening, the air growing thin. It’s like the walls are closing in around me, pressing down until I can barely breathe. At the same time, it feels as though I’m sinking, dragged down by an invisible weight. The deeper I go, the darker it gets, the more crushing the silence becomes.

“Honey?” My wife’s voice slices through the spiral of my thoughts.

I blink, my gaze snapping back to her. She’s watching me, her expression a mix of concern and patience. “Yeah,” I say quickly, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

Before she can press further, I take a shaky breath and pull out my phone. The NeuroNexus card is still in her hand, and she silently passes it back to me. My fingers hover over the number, hesitating for just a second before I hit the call button.

The first ring feels like an eternity. The weight in my stomach is building like bad food just sitting there. Before the first ring ends the phone is answered.

I hear a crisp, confident voice on the other end.

“Mr. Anderson. I’ve been anticipating your call. This is Dr. Lindstrom, but you can call me Pat. When can I set up a meeting to talk face-to-face and discuss our options?”

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The words hit me like a freight train, leaving me momentarily stunned. A few things throw me off right away. First, the speed—he answered so quickly, it’s as if he’s been sitting by the phone waiting for me specifically. Then, there’s the fact that he already knows it’s me. Sure, caller ID is a thing, but this feels oddly personal, almost unsettling. And finally, the way he keeps saying “we.” Not “I,” not “you”—but we, as if we’re suddenly a team tackling this together.

I take a moment to collect myself, trying to hide how thrown I am. “Uh, I’m pretty much open whenever you have time,” I manage to say. My voice sounds steady, but inside, I’m scrambling. I didn’t rehearse this conversation—honestly, I didn’t even think I’d make it this far—and now I’m caught off guard by his quickness and directness.

“Awesome. Outstanding!” he replies, his voice bright and almost too cheerful. “How about first thing tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.? You can come to our facility here in the city. Do you need any help finding the building?”

His enthusiasm is so overwhelming, it borders on jarring. It’s been a long time since I’ve encountered someone this warm, this eager. It almost feels alien, like I’ve stepped into a different world where people are actually this invested in helping others.

For a moment, I can’t decide whether to be annoyed or grateful. Part of me wants to believe in his sincerity, to trust that this guy might actually care about what I’m going through. But the skeptical part of me—the part that’s been burned too many times before—bristles at the tone, wondering if it’s all just an act.

“No, I think I can find it,” I say finally, trying to match his energy but failing miserably. My voice comes out flat, cautious.

“Great! Looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Anderson. I’ll have everything ready for you when you arrive. Have a good evening!” His voice is so full of positivity, it feels like it’s spilling out of the phone, filling the space around me.

I end the call and sit there for a moment, staring down at my phone like it’s a ticking time bomb. My chest feels tight again, a swirl of anxiety and doubt gnawing at me.

The idea of walking into that facility tomorrow feels enormous, like stepping into uncharted territory. It’s not just the therapy I’m unsure about—it’s the hope. The possibility that this might actually work, that there’s a sliver of light in this endless darkness.

I glance at my wife, who’s been watching me quietly from the driver’s seat. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a small, encouraging smile. It’s enough to remind me why I’m doing this, why I need to take this step.

“Tomorrow, 8 o’clock in the city.” I say, more to myself than to her, as if the word alone will anchor me to the decision.

As I set my phone down in the console of the SUV, a loud ding jolts me. I glance at the screen, noticing a number I don’t recognize. My thumb hovers over the notification for a moment before I finally open the message.

The words spill across the screen in crisp, professional font:

Mr. Anderson, it was nice to chat with you today. I look forward to our meeting tomorrow morning. Here’s a link to your calendar as a reminder. And as always, my friend, keep moving forward.

I stare at the message, rereading it twice to make sure I’m not imagining things. The phrase—keep moving forward—sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just a generic platitude; it’s my motto, the mantra I’ve clung to during some of the darkest moments of my life. How could he possibly know that?

I clear my throat and read the text aloud to my wife.

She glances at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “Isn’t that your saying? The thing you’re always telling yourself?”

“Yeah.” My voice is quiet, almost a whisper. I nod, but my mind is racing. “It is.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel as she processes my response, her eyes flicking briefly toward me. “That’s… weird. Did you say it during the call?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t.”

The atmosphere in the car shifts, the weight of the moment settling heavily between us. I can feel her unease, mirroring my own, though neither of us says anything more.

As we pull out of the parking lot, I glance out the window, hoping the movement outside will calm my restless thoughts. But as we drive past the main intersection, my eyes catch on something that makes me sit up straighter.

A massive digital billboard looms over the street, glowing bright against the dimming sky. In bold, futuristic lettering, it reads:

NeuroNexus: Integrating AI and Virtual Reality Therapy Systems. We’re here for you— to keep moving forward.

My breath catches, and for a moment, I can’t look away. The phrase blinks in neon perfection, a beacon cutting through the haze of my thoughts.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.

“What?” my wife asks, glancing over briefly before returning her focus to the road.

I nod toward the billboard. “Look at that.”

She follows my gaze and sees it too, her eyes widening slightly. “Okay, that’s... strange.”

The coincidence—or whatever it is—feels too precise, too tailored to be random. The phrase that’s been my lifeline, my personal mantra, is now staring back at me from a company that just happens to be offering me therapy.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. Is this a sign? A coincidence? Or something else entirely?

I sink back into my seat, the weight of the day pressing harder on my shoulders. Tomorrow’s meeting suddenly feels even more daunting. What am I walking into?

For now, though, I stay quiet while my mind races. The billboard fades from view as we turn onto the highway, but the unease lingers, settling deep in my chest like a stone.