Ethan has been going to therapy for a couple of weeks after his boss suggested he needed to get his mind straight. Luckily, Chef Kevin knew a friend who could help Ethan with his problems. Even luckier, the psychiatrist lived only ten minutes from his friend’s place—where Ethan was staying for now after moving out of his basement apartment when Esther broke up with him.

“Ethan. You’re fifteen minutes late to your appointment. Again,” Dr. Hong said, facepalming. “Have a seat.”

Ethan lay down on the inclined bed and pulled out his papers.

“Listen, Ethan. This is our third appointment and we’re not getting anywhere,” Dr. Hong continued. “You said you’re suffering from extreme depression, but that’s about it. Let’s try this again—and this time, let’s not waste each other’s time. What’s on your mind?”

Ethan tried to unpack whatever was in his head.

“Every time I’m at work, I think of her. All the times I screwed up in our relationship. I wish I could go back in time and undo my mistakes. One day at work, I accidentally started a fire. I had a squeeze bottle of oil, it spilled all over the hot stovetop, and everything went up in flames. I wasn’t even scared. I was admiring it—the warmth, the brightness. It was beautiful. So warm. Like it was giving me a hug.

My cooks rushed in and put it out while I watched it slowly die. My boss came in furious. He said this was the tenth time this had happened. That I was careless, mentally checked out. I didn’t argue. I just nodded. He told me to come back when I was in the right mindset. He said he was disappointed in what I’d become—but that he still knew I had the skills to run the place. With all this shit in my head, though, I don’t know if I can ever recover.”

Ethan paused. “Dr. Hong… I feel like I told you this before. Did I?”

Dr. Hong nodded and sighed. “You did. Last session. You also said your boss recommended this place and that therapy was a waste of your time. What else is on your mind? What about the people in your life besides your ex?”

Ethan took a deep breath.

“Before Esther—and before my career—I was practically a nobody. I never really had friends. I never really had friends. Well, I did, but they came and went so often it felt like a contract instead of a real friendship. I got shitty grades, barely passed my classes. I couldn’t focus, and I stuttered most of my childhood. The only real best friend I had was my mom.

On weekends, she’d cook. The house always smelled incredible—bread, soup, stocks, feasts, snacks. Watching her work felt like magic. Every Saturday morning, I’d just stand there, paying attention, trying to copy her style whenever I cooked. That’s when I fell in love with it. Cooking.

In my last year of high school, I told my parents I wanted to pursue culinary arts. They were furious. All that money on tutoring and extracurriculars, just for me to say I wanted something different. They wanted a high-paying job—accounting, programming, medicine. My mom cried. Said she failed me. My dad yelled, said I was incompetent my whole life. I snapped. I left and never went back.

I lived at my friend’s university residence for years just so I could chase this obsession. I worked—constantly. Holidays, anniversaries, weddings, celebrations. Fifty hours a week, every year, for eight years. But it was everything. I never felt so alive. Like I finally belonged somewhere.

But there was a flip side. If I failed, I’d have to crawl back home and admit I’d been sacked. I’ve never been so afraid. It flipped a switch in my head. I thought, ‘Fuck you. Fuck all of you. Watch this.’

“It sounds like you were motivated by fear,” Dr. Hong said. “Fear of failing. Fear of going back home.”

Ethan wiped his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Dr. Hong kept writing. “Let’s continue.”

“One day, while I was browsing recipe books at Indigo, I bumped into this woman. Esther. She had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Her voice was warm and gentle—like my mom before everything fell apart. She was confident. Effortlessly so. After that, the rest was history.

Every month, every week—no, every day—we fell deeper in love. She was my ride-or-die. My better half. For four years, life felt peaceful. She kept me grounded when everything else was falling apart. She patched me up, physically and mentally. She always showed me where the light at the end of the tunnel was.

She had these two phrases she always used. Sometimes she’d wrap her arms around me and say, ‘I bet on you—you can make it happen.’ Other times she’d poke my side and joke, ‘So don’t be an idiot.’

At our one-year anniversary, I asked if she wanted to run away together. Start fresh. She didn’t hesitate—just asked where. So we rented a small basement place, far from our families, and started over.

But I brought my baggage with me. I don’t know how she loved me when I was in such terrible shape—when it was hard for me to love her back. I shared sparks of joy, but it was never enough. I think that’s when her abandonment issues started.

Where she once showed me the light, I denied it. Now that I’ve embraced the darkness, I’m too afraid to live—and not scared of dying.”

Ethan stopped. “That’s it. Now you know everything.”

Dr. Hong rubbed his eyes. “I don’t think that’s everything. But I’m glad you’re finally opening up.” He paused. “And the antidepressants—you are taking them, right?”

Ethan stayed silent.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Dr. Hong said. “You still have plenty. Please take them.”

Ethan nodded.

After the appointment, Ethan returned to his friend’s studio apartment. He sat on his bed, opened the drawer, and took out his antidepressants. He read the label: Do not mix with alcohol.

Outside, it was a busy Thursday evening. Snow clogged the streets, cars honked impatiently, and his favorite bar down the block glowed with happy-hour lights.

Ethan grabbed his jacket and walked out.

The bartender greeted him with a nod. “Ethan. What’s up, brother? The usual? Sixteen-ounce Belgian draft?”

Ethan nodded.

“Give me a sec—party of eight needs me.”

While he waited, the bar buzzed with laughter, flirting, music. Ethan barely registered it. His phone vibrated. As he pulled it out, his antidepressants slipped into his hand.

It was his boss.

Ethan. How you doing, kiddo? Just checking in. The team misses you—things aren’t the same without you. Don’t worry about us. We’ll hold it down until you’re back. When you return, we’ll reinvent the menu together. Your health comes first. My door’s always open.

Ethan started crying. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or pain.

Suddenly, the bartender snatched the pills from his hand. Ethan dropped his phone.

“What’s this?” the bartender asked, reading the label. He sighed. “You know you can’t bring this stuff in here. I’ll let it slide this time—but put it away.”

He handed the pills back and passed Ethan his drink, watching him closely.

Ethan ordered more. Way more. Eventually, the bar noise faded into static.

By 11 p.m., Ethan could barely stand. After two tequila shots on top of the beer, the hallway spun. He leaned against the walls, memories crashing in—his parents yelling, Esther smiling, his boss’s disappointment, roaring ovens, nonstop ticket printers, the warmth of fire, the cold winter sky.

At his door, his hands failed him. He collapsed face-first onto the floor.

A neighbor stepped out. “Oh my God.”

She helped him sit up, gave him warm water, and unlocked his door. In his blurred vision, she almost looked like Esther.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You okay?”

“Esther,” Ethan murmured. “You used to show me the light. I denied it. Now I’m too afraid to live… and not scared of dying. I’m sorry.”

Confused, the woman backed away and returned to her apartment.

Ethan crawled inside, locked the door, and sat on the floor—crying, numbing the pain, trying to make sense of it all.