I cradled the small bottle in my hands, its weight unfamiliar, yet it nestled there like it was meant to. The surface felt smooth and cool, almost calming, as though it understood the ache twisting inside me. The room stretched wide and empty, too quiet except for the low hum of the laptop, its glow a hollow echo of normalcy.
Then came the sharp ding—a Teams notification. My heart jolted, breath catching. My fingers twitched, almost dropping the bottle.
I wiped at my face, quick, as if the screen could see me crumble. The message glowed there: “Stupid Fun Friday.” Not from him. Not his name.
A thin breath slipped out, shallow and unsteady. My fingers found the bottle again, tracing the delicate edge of the label as though it might offer clarity. The weight of the past days pressed down harder, heavy and suffocating, like I was sinking and the surface kept moving further away. I pressed the cool surface against my forehead, just for a moment, as if it could cool the burning behind my eyes.
I wanted to scream, to tear through the quiet with sound, but the scream lodged somewhere deep, heavy as stone. I grabbed a pillow, buried my face in it, and the sobs clawed their way out, muffled and raw. My shoulders trembled as the dam finally broke, as if the weight pressing down on me had cracked me open.
Time slipped, blurred by the salt on my skin and the ache in my chest.
When I finally reached for my phone, my hands were shaking. Even through the chaos in my head, a bitter, practical voice whispered—add the nominees in the bank, set the out-of-office reply, request the half-day leave. I followed the steps like rituals, as though they could offer control over what felt uncontrollable.
I glanced at his status. Presenting mode. Relief mixed with something sharp. For now, his voice wouldn’t crash into the thoughts swirling like a storm.
I stood, legs trembling beneath me, each step heavy with the weight of the decision coiling tighter around me. The bottle was still in my hand as I left the room, its presence quiet and certain. I kept the bottle on the dining table as I picked keys of the apartment.
Outside, the world moved on, unaware of the storm I carried.
I moved through the motions at the bank like a ghost, ticking boxes and signing papers, but everything felt distant, as if I were watching someone else’s hands move across the desk. My thoughts were heavy, slow, like walking through water. When it was finally done, I stepped out into the heat, my legs carrying me forward without me thinking, back toward the apartment I had come to call home.
I was making a mental list, a strange, detached ritual. Write a note for my parents, explain it wasn’t their fault. Send a separate email outlining my savings and investments—just in case, so they wouldn’t have to wonder or fight the system. These details kept me anchored, mechanical, as though finishing them might make everything feel less final.
A voice broke through, low and bitter, “Why did it come to this?”
I had moved to this city chasing something bigger—a better job, a better life. But the job had turned into a prison, with a boss who wielded control like a weapon, who didn’t understand or care. Each day had blurred into the next: long hours, relentless pressure, exhaustion so deep it seeped into my bones. I was drained, hollowed out. My friendships faded, one after another, until the silence was complete. My parents called, their voices laced with concern, and I lied, telling them it was temporary, that things were just busy. But the truth was, I had lost hope. The world felt heavy and colorless, and I couldn’t see a way out.
The bottle haunted my thoughts, calling softly like a promise. I imagined it's cool weight in my hand, the silence it could bring.
Then—a sharp vibration. Another notification.
I froze, the sound pulling me back, jarring against the numb silence. My eyes fell on the message, and then the picture. A tiny pup, fragile and trembling, stared back at me. The caption read: “Found near the society gate. Too fragile, too weak. Wouldn’t survive alone. Looking for a home for this furball.”
I zoomed in, drawn to its face. It was so small, so vulnerable. Its eyes held something familiar—a quiet, aching sadness, a plea I knew too well.
Something twisted inside me.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket, trying to force myself to sink back into the dark thoughts I’d been clinging to. I wanted to summon the courage to let it all go, to feel the sadness so deep that it would drown me. But my mind kept circling back to the pup.
I told myself I’d look at his picture one last time. I pulled out my phone, zoomed in again. Those eyes—they pulled at me, as if begging, as if they saw me. Frustrated, I shoved the phone back into my pocket.
I stepped into the society gates, my feet dragging toward my tower. “Which tower is it, anyway?” I found myself wondering. I checked. It was my building. The pup was on the 10th floor. I was 13.
I walked into the lift and pressed 13. The weight in my chest felt heavier as the lift hummed to life, rising. I hated myself for hesitating, for letting something as small as this distract me. But just as the doors were about to close, I pressed 10.
No harm in just seeing it, I told myself. One look. One touch. I deserve that much before I go.
As I rang the doorbell, an elderly woman opened the door. Cats peeked from behind her legs, their curious eyes following me. Without a word, she gestured to a basket on the floor. Inside, the tiny pup was curled up, wrapped in a soft blanket.
“I already have cats, too many to care for more,” she said gently. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”
I stammered, but before I could answer, she placed her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry,” she said softly, but firmly. “You can always ask for help. He will change your life for the better.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a promise.
Within moments, I was outside, cradling the basket in my arms. The pup stirred, and his tiny paws brushed against me, as if to say, You’re not alone. I’m here for you now.
Tears welled in my eyes and fell onto the blanket as I carried him home.
The alarm rang. I woke up to find Uno, now three years old, curled up beside me, his warm breath softly brushing against my arm. As he stirred and stretched, his tail gave a gentle thump against the bed, a sound that wrapped around my heart like a comforting hug. I couldn’t help but smile through the tears that welled up in my eyes.
With Uno by my side, everything had changed. He had been my anchor through storms I thought would drown me. Because of him, I found the courage to leave that draining job, to mend broken bridges with friends and family, and to face life’s relentless challenges with a newfound resilience.
Therapy had guided me back to a version of myself I thought I’d lost forever, but it was Uno who reminded me what it meant to live—not just to exist or survive, but to embrace the world with open arms and an open heart. In his presence, I was no longer just coping; I was thriving, rediscovering the simple, profound joys of life—one wag of his tail at a time.
I reached over to pet him, and he responded with a happy lick, insisting on his morning walk. As we strolled through the society gates, I saw the old woman—now a dear friend—and we exchanged a smile.
The society WhatsApp groups no longer irritated me. That one simple message, on one ordinary day, had saved my life.
And I was grateful.
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