Your roommates, Daniel and Leo, had been watching the cracks form in your foundation for months, though you’d been doing your best to paint over them with tired smiles and frantic assurances that you were "just stressed." But the facade had finally crumbled. It started with the laundry—mountainous heaps of cotton and denim that claimed the corners of your bedroom like soft, fabric glaciers—and evolved into a hollowed-out existence where meals became afterthoughts and sleep became a chaotic luxury.

They saw the way your eyes had gone matte, the light of ambition replaced by a vacant, flickering burnout that made you look like a ghost haunting your own apartment. You were drowning in plain sight, gasping for air beneath a tide of obligations you could no longer manage, and the silence in the hallways had grown heavy with their growing concern.

Daniel and Leo reached a silent agreement: they were done watching you spiral. They didn't want your apologies, and they certainly didn't want to hear your protests that you "had it under control."