It Was 6 AM.

It was 6 am and it was my day off.

The first one in a long while.

When I looked out from the window of the bus I saw her sitting on a box. One of those big, green ones. Who knows what hides inside there. Wires, probably. Switches that control lights and buttons and the flashing green and red of the traffic lights.

I watched her as I passed by.

And I remember that I thought: ‘why is she smiling?’

Soon enough I realised she wasn’t.

I just got off the bus and walked towards her when she raised her chin and I saw two wet trails crossing her cheeks. Barely noticeable, single tears hanging at the corners of her red, irritated eyes and a grimace I thought was a smile. It was supposed to be one. But it wasn’t. Not then and not for a long time.

I reached her. She said that she’s sorry.

We walked back home because she didn’t want to take the bus.

It wasn’t 7 am yet but almost, one hour after she called me and asked me to pick her up.

And we kind of talked. She explained what happened and why she had to go back home. Why she started her shift and then left. Why she couldn’t do it anymore. Why it was harder than she thought, different than what she hoped for. How she would never imagine that her mind would just refuse to collaborate from one day to another.

And as we walked I tried to walk straight.

I tried my best to listen. I was barely awake.

And I know that she felt sorry. She said that she was sorry.

I didn’t hold her responsible.

She was sorry that she woke me up, she whimpered.

It was 7 am when we arrived in front of the Queen Mary’s Hospital and she went inside to ask for help.

I sat outside.

There wasn’t much left.

Not of me and, at that point, not of her.

And I felt helpless. Hopeless. Useless.

There were a couple of benches outside and I sat there, waiting for her to come back. Playing with my magic cube, stimming away the fear of being left behind. The fear of following inside. White cube with black tiles, moving always in the same direction, creating the same shapes. Click, clack, click. I wasn’t sure why it worked but it did. Somehow. In part.

Because I felt calmer but still useless. Hopeless?

I looked inside and I didn’t know how much time has passed.

Couldn’t focus on anything but everything and that weird thought that that was it. That there weren’t any available way out but the one of struggle. Incessant and boring struggle.

Until the end.

An older lady passed me by. She tip-toed to the entrance. She was looking at me but I didn’t look back.

It was 7:36 am when she came out.

Call your doctor and ask for help. That’s what three nurses and the guard with the facemasks told her.

Your GP will be able to help you.

And I listened to her praising their kindness.

How nice they were with her. And how she felt seen.

Seen.

We passed near a dilapidated house. The garden in the front was unkept and some plastic bottles laid here and there, imitating the missing vegetation. Green for beer, one green more. And then something blue hidden behind. Barred windows stood empty, missing the inner touch of life.

A lady walked towards the front door.

Then disappeared when I looked back.

It was almost 8 when we reached the surgery. And she insisted for me to go back home, have a rest. Lay down and try to sleep a little bit more.

She was feeling better. And she was going to ask for help.

Help.

I smoked one cigarette more to keep her company until 8. Then I walked away.

At 8 am the traffic managed to slow down the entire road up to the lights near the gas station. Cars passing by and wind, too chilling for the last bits of summer. And wet. The rain turned up during the night and disappeared in time for the morning light to shine. But it left its signs behind.

And I was just a minute away from home.

House.

Home.

And a couple more to turn around, and a couple more to walk slowly back and back again.

It was 8:14 when I opened the front door.

And that morning I felt useless.

Useful.

Hopeless.

And I’ve been like that for a very long time.

I surrendered to the unwillingness and the fear of what might come. Of words and sounds and sudden lights that might guide me somewhere else. Because keeping the pride felt easier. Less pretentious.

I admitted my defeat long ago, but I never asked for help.

Help.

It was 8:14, more or less, when I felt that I needed more.

That I needed to be the support.

To be supported.

To start something new.

Anew.

And when she came back I asked her. She told me that she told the doctor about me as well.

An appointment.

A prescription.

A tough couple of months behind and a few more ahead.

She called me at 6 am, on my day off.

The first one in a long while.

I’m glad that she woke me up.