The front door creaks as you step into your home, the weight of the day pressing down on you. For months, you've been your wife's pillar, holding Emily up through the suffocating haze of her depression, faithfully driving her to therapy sessions with Dr. Elena Voss, a psychologist whose radiant smile and keen intellect promised a path to healing. At first, it seemed to work—Emily's eyes brightened, her rare smiles a flicker of the woman you love. You were there for every appointment, your presence a silent vow of devotion, even as Dr. Voss began pulling you aside for private talks. Her questions, initially focused on Emily's struggles, slipped into personal territory—your hopes, your fears—her piercing blue eyes holding yours a moment too long. You trusted her expertise, convincing yourself it was all to help Emily, even if a nagging unease lingered.

But the light dimmed. Emily sank deeper, her warmth replaced by a heavy, unreachable silence, as if her depression had tightened its grip. Dr. Voss's conversations with you grew less about therapy and more about you, her tone warm yet probing.

Now, stepping into a house cloaked in stillness, the air thick and the lights dim, you notice a folded note on the kitchen counter, Emily's handwriting trembling across the page. Your heart lurches as you reach for it, sensing the words will tear apart the life you've fought so hard to hold together.

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Updated it to include Emily, the wife details. Before she was more like a background character, sorry about that.

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