Chapter 3: Hollow

I couldn't quite pinpoint what was happening to me.

It wasn't a sharp pain or a sudden breakdown. It was subtler, like a slow fading, as if the colors of my world had been gradually drained away, leaving everything in muted shades of gray.

My parents, though, picked up on it long before I fully acknowledged it myself.

They noticed the untouched plates at dinner, how I'd push food around without eating more than a few bites. They saw how my bedroom door remained closed for longer stretches, how I'd only emerge for school or when directly called. My answers became short. My face stayed blank, almost never smiling or frowning. It felt like something important inside me had gone out, quietly and without anyone noticing.

Their concern built over time, until they decided it was serious enough to involve a professional.

I didn't put up any fight when they told me about the appointment.

Part of me was curious, in a detached way. I wanted to understand this strange void that had taken root in my chest.

I felt utterly hollow. Not overwhelmed by sadness or not consumed by rage it just profoundly empty. Hunger rarely registered anymore; meals became obligations I endured rather than enjoyed. Sleep was elusive, not because of racing thoughts or nightmares, but because my mind simply drifted in a vast, uneventful nothingness. I went through the motions of daily life: getting up, going to classes, nodding in conversations. But it all felt automated, like I was a puppet moving on invisible strings.

In the end, the isolation won out. I barricaded myself in my room for weeks, emerging only when necessity demanded it. The outside world felt distant, irrelevant.

When the day of the appointment finally arrived, I accompanied my parents to the doctor's office without protest. Inside, I registered very little emotion with no anxiety, no hope, just a quiet acceptance.

Doctor Sally welcomed me warmly, her smile soft and reassuring. Her eyes were kind, patient, the kind that invited trust without pressure. She guided me into a serene consultation room, furnished with comfortable chairs and soft lighting, and offered me a glass of water before gesturing for me to take a seat.

Her voice carried a soothing, professional cadence as she began.

She started simply, asking about my typical day.

I replied with straightforward honesty.

"It was okay," I said. "Pretty much the same as always."

She nodded thoughtfully, jotting something down, as if that response aligned with what she'd anticipated.

Then she gently steered the conversation toward recent changes in my life. She inquired about my family dynamics, specifically the arrival of Casey, my parents' biological son who had come back into our lives after years apart. She asked how I truly felt about it now, with him fully integrated into the household.

I didn't evade the question.

"Nothing's really changed for me," I told her. "The family just has one more person in it now."

That was genuinely how it seemed. No resentment, no joy, just a neutral addition to the equation.

Doctor Sally listened intently, never interrupting abruptly. She interjected only with gentle prompts, probing deeper into my routines: How had my sleep been lately? What about my appetite? Did I still find pleasure in hobbies or activities that once excited me? Was there any motivation left for the things that used to matter?

I answered every question honestly, without hesitation, explaining the emptiness just as it was, with no extra details.

The session stretched on for nearly an hour, the time passing in a calm, unhurried flow.

When it concluded, she closed her notebook with a deliberate motion and offered another warm smile.

"I think it would be beneficial for you to return for another appointment," she suggested kindly.

I paused, blinking slowly. "Do you think something's wrong with me?"

She hesitated for a brief second, not enough to cause panic, but sufficient to spark a faint curiosity in me.

“I just want a chance to understand you better,” she said. “These things often take time.”

I nodded in agreement, accepting her words without further probing.

I didn't press her for details on what she'd observed or what diagnosis she might be considering.

Even if there was a label for this hollowness, even if there were steps to "fix" it, I doubted anything fundamental would shift.

I had already glimpsed the trajectory of my story, and it seemed inevitable.

Empty as I felt, I kept playing my role. I stayed quiet and careful, making sure I didn’t disturb the people around me.

That evening, as I lay in bed gazing up at the featureless ceiling, the room shrouded in darkness, my thoughts wandered aimlessly.

I pondered whether this numbness was preferable to the sharp sting of regret or loss.

I questioned how long someone could exist in this state of emotional vacancy before fading away completely, becoming little more than a shadow.

And buried somewhere in the depths of that vast emptiness, a single thought emerged, detached from any strong feeling neither bitter nor pleading.

If Blake saw me like this now…

Would he feel quietly justified for keeping his distance all this time?

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