At the Threshold
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 2: Permission to Stop
The rain hadn’t stopped all week.
It slid down her office window in thin gray threads, blurring the skyline until everything outside looked as tired as she felt. Anna sat motionless at her desk, the cursor blinking on an empty email draft. Her mind refused to form sentences; her fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt rested. Or hopeful. Or even real.
Her boss’s voice snapped her back.
“Anna, that report’s still not done?”
“I’m almost finished,” she lied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The moment he left, she closed the document and stared at her reflection in the blackened computer screen — pale skin, lifeless eyes, dark circles like bruises under them. She looked like someone who’d been running for years.
By the time she made it home that night, the rain had soaked through her coat. The apartment felt smaller than ever. Mark’s old mug still sat in the cupboard. She hated herself for not throwing it away.
She sank onto the couch, shoes still on, and just sat there in the half-light. Her body felt heavy — like every bone, every muscle had given up. For a long time, she listened to the hum of the refrigerator and her own shallow breathing.
That whisper again: I need to stop.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a plea.
She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found Lora’s name. Her thumb hovered for a moment before she pressed Call.
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