Noah was seventeen, honor roll, captain of the team, with a smile everyone trusted. Nobody knew the smile was a mask. Inside was a gray nothing. Food tasted like cardboard. Music sounded like noise. Depression isn’t always sadness—sometimes it’s feeling nothing at all.
His little sister drew him a picture of a stick figure with a huge smile: “This is you. You’re always happy.” And Noah felt the mask for what it was. He went to his mom and said, “I’m not okay. I don’t think I’ve been okay for a long time.” She put down the dish and said, “Tell me everything.”
Reese counted everything—calories, steps, ounces—until the math became a prison and her body disappeared. She fainted in the hallway. Her best friend found her and said, “I miss you. The real you. The one who used to steal my fries. Where did she go?” Her first full meal in treatment was pasta. She cried through every bite. And the next day, she did it again.
If you’re in that dark, quiet place: the fog lifts. Not because someone told you so—because that’s what fog does. And when it lifts, you’ll see the world you almost left, and it will be worth staying for.