A knock on the door startled me upright off the couch. I spliced the blinds with my fingers to see the visitor’s face. Upon a glimpse, I slammed my eyes shut and swore as a whisper through my clenched teeth.
“It’s depression,” a voice opposite side of the door said. “It’s been a while. Can I come in?”
“Yeah…” I said, thinking. “I’m kinda busy today.”
“I’m free next Tuesday,” depression said in a tempestuous tone.
I paused. “I’m busy that day, too.”
“How’s tomorrow night sound?” Her eyes drew to my sight, locking a mysterious connection with intrusive thoughts that scaled my heart.
“I have a date with anxiety,” I said, hoping she’d get the hint.
“You’re snoozing with anxiety and me?” Depression exploded. “I’m the one you’re supposed to sleep with! No one else. Me.”
“You know what I lied — panic attack visits me from time-to-time,” I said. “Kinda like a side-chick, and besides, I think we need a break.”
“Are you…are you breaking up with me?” depression asked.
“It’s not you; it’s me.”
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