As I roll over to silence the relentless blare of my alarm clock, a wave of discomfort greets me. My stomach churns, acid creeping up my throat, leaving a bitter burn that matches the unease in my chest. The uncertainty of what the day holds presses down on me like an invisible weight. Last night offered no reprieve. Sleep was a fleeting, elusive thing as I tossed and turned, trapped in an endless loop of racing thoughts and memories I can’t seem to quiet. My mind never surrenders, no matter how much my body begs for rest.

Despite the heaviness in my limbs, I know I have to move. Tired or not, there’s no avoiding it—I need to drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I groan, fighting the inertia pinning me down, when my wife steps into the room.

Her voice begins, soft but insistent, "Honey—"

“I know, I know,” I interrupt, cutting her off before she can finish. My tone is sharper than intended, but the words spill out in a rush. “I need to get moving. Yes, I see what time it is.”

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look surprised. Instead, her eyes soften with a mix of patience and concern, a look I’ve come to both appreciate and resent. I know she’s trying to help, trying to steady the storm that rages inside me. But it’s hard to accept help when you don’t even know how to ask for it.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit for a moment, staring at the floor. The room feels quiet now, but my mind isn’t. It’s loud. Too loud.

“Just one step at a time,” I mutter to myself. Whether it’s a plea or motivation, I’m not sure.

Either way, it’s all I’ve got.

She turns without a word and heads to the bathroom. Moments later, I hear the sound of the shower running—her quiet way of urging me along without pushing too hard. That’s just her; always stepping in when I can’t quite get moving on my own.

I sit on the edge of the bed for another second, feeling the weight of my 315-pound frame settle into my joints. My knees ache as I stand, and my back protests with a symphony of cracks and pops.

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing my face as if it’ll somehow wipe away the exhaustion. “I’m too tired for this. I just want to go back to bed.”

But I can’t. I grab my phone off the nightstand, its familiar weight in my hand grounding me just a little, and trudge toward the bathroom. With a few swipes, I pull up a playlist and hit play. The music floods the small space, drowning out the outside world, but it does nothing to silence the chaos in my head. My thoughts are relentless, tumbling over each other in a loop of worry, guilt, and doubt.

I step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me. Steam rises around me, and for a moment, I close my eyes, hoping—begging—that the heat will wash away the storm in my mind. But it doesn’t. It never does. The racing thoughts cling to me like a second skin, impossible to scrub away.

By the time I finish, my muscles are looser, but my mind feels no lighter. I dry off mechanically, each movement part of a routine I’ve performed a thousand times before.

Back in the bedroom, I pull on a pair of jeans, my old college hoodie, and my favorite Jordans. They’re scuffed and worn, but there’s something comforting about them—a piece of the past that feels solid, unchanging, and dependable.

I grab my phone and head to the living room. My wife is waiting on the couch, scrolling through her phone, but she looks up the second she hears me.

“I’m ready to get this ball rolling,” I say, but the words catch in my throat.

As I approach her, a wave of nausea rises from my stomach. My palms are damp, my chest tight. Nervousness rears its ugly head once again, as it wraps around me like a vice, squeezing until I can barely breathe. My legs feel like lead, and for a moment, I think I might not make it to the couch.

“Just keep moving,” I whisper to myself. My voice is barely audible over the music still playing faintly from my phone, but I hope it’s enough to carry me forward.

“Honey, are you okay? Do you need a minute?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with concern.

Her worry isn’t out of place. It wasn’t too long ago that I had a heart attack—an event that turned my world upside down and threw everything into even more chaos. Just a few months before that, I was recovering from kidney surgery, a procedure I thought would be the end of my health troubles. Looking back, it was probably a warning sign I didn’t fully understand at the time, a precursor to the heart issues that followed.

My wife hasn’t forgotten any of it. Nor will she let me. The memory of waking up in a hospital bed, her tear-streaked face hovering over me, is something I’ll carry forever. Even the conversations that I had to have with the doctors and nurses that day weren’t pretty. I still remember how they attacked me when they asked if I had suicidal depression. Let’s just say that’s the last time I was open and honest with anyone but what was going on in my head. Since then, she’s watched me like a hawk, always alert to the smallest signs that something might be wrong.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “I’ll be okay,” I tell her, my voice quiet but trembling with the weight of it all. “I just think… everything is overwhelming me right now.”

She moves closer, resting a hand lightly on my arm and her head on my shoulder. Her touch is grounding, a small reminder that I’m not facing this alone, even if it feels like it. And it always feels like it.

“I’m here,” she says simply. “Whatever you need, it will be okay.”

The words should comfort me, and in some small way, they always do. But the anxiety still lingers, an ever-present weight pressing down on my chest. I know she’s trying, and I know she’s worried, but how do I explain the storm raging inside me when I can barely make sense of it myself?

I ask her to drive us into the city. I used to insist on being the one behind the wheel—it was my thing, my way of staying in control. But since my health issues, driving has become another challenge. I often feel off-balance, a dizziness that leaves me disoriented, like I’ve had too much to drink. Of course, that’s not the case; I quit drinking the moment I first had kidney trouble.

She nods, grabs the keys, and we head to the car.

“Do you want to stop and get something to eat or drink beforehand?” she asks as she buckles up.

“Sure, let’s grab a breakfast burrito and something to drink,” I reply, knowing there’s more to my answer than hunger. It’s another reason I asked her to drive. In the last few months, even the simplest social interactions have become a minefield of anxiety. Something as routine as going through a drive-thru can send my heart racing and leave my body in a state of tension I can’t shake.

As we approach the drive-thru, I brace myself, but everything goes smoothly this time. No awkward exchanges, no misplaced words, no judgmental stares—at least none I noticed. When we pull away with the food, I start eating immediately. There’s comfort in it, something satisfying about the warmth and the familiar taste. For a few moments, my mood levels out, though the underlying tension never fully disappears.

The highway stretches out before us, cars zipping by as we drive. I stare out the window, watching the world rush past. It amazes me how easily everyone else seems to move through their day, as if life is this effortless thing. For me, even leaving the house feels monumental—a battle I fight every single time.

The cars weave in and out, headlights and taillights flashing like signals I can’t decode.

How do they do it? How do they keep going, keep functioning, as if nothing weighs them down? I sit there, burrito in hand, feeling like an alien in my own life, disconnected from the motion around me.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Yet here I am, in the car, on the highway. It’s not much, but it’s a step. At least I’m making an effort—trying to do something, anything, to quiet the voices raging in my mind.

Even though I need her to drive me to the appointment, I can’t seem to turn off the nagging voice inside my head. My hyper-vigilance is in overdrive—always scanning, always on alert.

It’s like my mind is constantly bracing for something to go wrong, even when it’s not necessary. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop myself.

When I drive, it’s bad enough. My eyes dart between mirrors, checking blind spots, watching for any slight deviation in other drivers’ patterns. Every movement is a potential threat. But now, with her behind the wheel, it’s almost worse. I see every tiny detail—the car in the lane next to us drifting a little too close, the driver in front of us tapping their brakes without signaling, the motorcycle weaving in and out of traffic. I see it all before it even becomes an issue, and I can’t help but make comments—quiet mutterings under my breath or sharp noises of frustration.

She’s doing nothing wrong, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t stop myself from pointing out the risks I’m constantly aware of. “That guy’s not even looking before he merges,” I scream, even as she smoothly adjusts. “Watch the brakes up ahead,” I add, my eyes already locking onto the car ahead of us.

It’s not that I don’t trust her. She’s a good driver, better than most, aside from a mishap with a fast-food drive-in sign that one time. But it’s like my mind is constantly searching for dangers that aren’t there, finding potential threats in places where others see nothing. It’s exhausting, feeling like you’re always living on the edge, your body bracing for impact even when there’s nothing to brace for.

I can’t help it. The world feels like it’s moving too fast, and my mind can’t keep up, nor will my body relax.

I decide to recline the seat and lay back, hoping to calm myself down, to create some space between my mind and the pressure building in my chest. But even then, I can’t escape it. Every bump in the road, every slight brake check, the sharp jolt of every pothole—it feels like it’s being amplified in my body. It makes me sick, like the motion is crawling under my skin, the tension tightening with each passing second.

I try to breathe through it, focus on the small things: the hum of the tires against the asphalt, the rhythm of the engine, the steady pulse of my heartbeat. But it’s no use. The discomfort builds, the anxiety churns in my gut, and eventually, I can’t take it anymore. I sit up, the seat creaking beneath me as I adjust, trying to push the feeling away.

“Well, that was short-lived,” I mutter under my breath, half to myself, half to her.

“Are you okay, babe?” my wife asks, her voice full of concern.

“Yeah, just drive. I’m fine,” I reply, the urgency in my tone cutting through the words before I can stop them. “I just need to get to where we’re going, and then... then I can sort it out.”

The words come out sharper than I intend, a hint of desperation woven through my voice. But the truth is, I feel trapped. Trapped in the car, trapped in my body, trapped in this endless cycle of discomfort and anxiety. I want out—now. Not in ten minutes, not in an hour. Right now.

My body feels like it’s about to burst; every nerve is loaded with tension that won’t release. It’s like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to snap. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s going to give, and I’m not sure if I can hold it together long enough to make it to our destination.

As I sit inside my own mind, lost in the endless whirlpool of thoughts, I think about everything—about my life, about the things I’ve done, the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve missed. Whether right, wrong, or indifferent, it all swirls together in an overwhelming haze. I shut out the world around me, retreating into myself for what feels like a lifetime. I check out mentally, letting everything fade into the background, like I’m drifting off into space.

That’s when I notice my wife, Tina, rolling down her window.

What in the world are we doing?

She speaks to the gate guard with that calm, steady voice of hers, like everything is just another routine part of the day.

“Yes, we’re here for an appointment at 8 a.m.,” she tells him.

The guard looks down at his clipboard, scanning it for a moment before meeting her eyes.

“Okay, name?”

“Tina Anderson.”

He scribbles something down and then looks at me. “And your name, sir? I need to write it down and enter it into the computer for who will be entering the facility parking lot with the client.” His tone is polite, just doing his job. But there’s something off about it—something that doesn’t sit right.

“Frank Anderson,” I reply, feeling a small knot form in my stomach, like something is a little too off.

“Alright,” the guard says, still smiling. “Go ahead and take this parking decal, and you’ll be in the VIP section up front. You can’t miss it.”

VIP? I don’t know what to make of that. It feels out of place.

As my wife pulls forward, I mumble, “VIP? That’s weird.”

“You know what’s even weirder?” Tina asks, her brow furrowing slightly. “The list only had your name on it. I didn’t see any other names.”

I can’t help but wonder—why the hell would the guard even ask if we’re the only ones coming through the gate without a company badge? Why make it sound like there was supposed to be someone else? My mind starts racing, the anxiety creeping in again, like something’s not adding up. It’s like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle, and it’s gnawing at me. What’s going on here?

As we pull to the front, I can’t help but notice the VIP parking. It’s directly in front of the building, the sleek, glass-and-steel structure of NeuroNexus looming ahead, almost like a fortress of cold, impersonal technology. My eyes linger on the building, taking in the sharp angles and the feel of it. Everything about this place seems precise. I’ve never been here before, and I don’t know what to expect. And that terrifies me. Yet, here I am, parked right at the center of it all, like I’m supposed to belong.

Tina shuts off the car, and the silence between us is heavy. My heart starts pounding in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I sit there for a moment, staring at the building, trying to will myself into action.

I try to talk myself up—tell myself that I can do this, that I can walk through those doors and face whatever it is waiting for me on the other side. But the words feel hollow, like I’m trying to convince someone else, not myself. The truth is, I have no idea what to expect, what they’re going to ask me, or if I’m even ready for any of it.

The door clicks open, and Tina starts to move, but I freeze, my body unwilling to follow.

“Frank?” she asks gently, turning to look at me.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. I know I need to get out, to take that first step, but the fear is paralyzing.

“I am ready,” I mutter under my breath, trying to steel myself for what’s to come. My hands grip the edge of the seat, knuckles white, as if I’m trying to anchor myself to something solid. The doubt, the fear, the uncertainty—they all swirl inside me, threatening to pull me under.

I close my eyes for a moment, take a deep breath, and then I count out loud, trying to ground myself, to push through the panic.

“3… 2… 1… I am ready.”