I put my phone down and slid out of bed. My bare feet padded on my bedroom carpet until I hit the cool wood of the hallway. I stopped at Micah’s bedroom door. His room smelt faintly of him—clean cotton and wood—but the usually tidy space was in disarray, perhaps like his mind. Clothes littered the floor, and there were dirty glasses on the bedside table.
Against my better judgement, I stepped over the threshold to grab them. If he ever came home, he wouldn’t like the mess. I took the glasses to the kitchen and returned to make the bed. Clothes found their way to the hamper, and I straightened his chest of drawers, dusting the top and tucking wayward T-shirts back where they came from.
The top drawer was half open. I stood from my crouch to close it, but as I slid it along the runners, I stopped short and opened it again.
Micah’s medication was tucked amongst his socks. I remembered him taking it the morning after the first night we’d spent together. How he’d shyly tried to hide it, then changed his mind and met my gaze with a defiance that made my soul bleed.
I couldn’t recall seeing him take it since.What if—
No. Micah was committed to his recovery. It didn’t fit that he’d stop taking his medication any more than he’d dip out on his therapy.But if he did, these drugs have serious withdrawal symptoms, right?
I grabbed the packets and laid them out on the top of the chest of drawers. The anti-depressants were a brand name I recognised, but I had no idea what the others were. I couldn’t even pronounce the name. But the mystery pills came in a calendar strip, like birth control pills. The last pill had been taken on a Tuesday.
The first night I’d slept in his bed had been a Monday... I was sure of it.
There was a football season planner pinned to Micah’s bedroom wall. I flicked back to the previous month and found the date. A Monday. Was it possible that he hadn’t taken his meds since then?
I didn’t want to believe it, but it made sickening sense. His erratic moods and strange behaviour. The emotions he couldn’t seem to control—fear, joy, anger. We’d shared some beautiful moments, but I wasn’t so blinkered by love that I’d missed the crippling sadness weighing him down. Had he stopped his meds on purpose? Would he do that? I had no idea. In fact, the only thing I was certain of was unless Micah had left the flat with spare pill packets shoved in his pockets, he still wasn’t taking them.
Shit.
The dread that had been roiling inside me increased tenfold. Everyone I knew who’d been treated with anti-depressants had been warned not to stop taking them suddenly. That withdrawal syndrome was brutal and dangerous. I typed the name of the other drug into Google. It was a mood stabiliser used to treat severe depression, acute mania, and bipolar disorder. Withdrawal side effects included agitation, restlessness, poor sleep and appetite, and an abrupt return of the symptoms it had been prescribed to treat.
My heart sank. Micah had always kept his official diagnosis close to his chest, and I’d never pushed him, even after we’d grown close enough to share a bed every night, but I couldn’t deny that I recognised the symptoms on the screen. I’d seen them. Felt them. And the idea of him out there in the city, dealing with them all alone, scared me to hell.
You don’t know that he’s alone.
But I did. Freddie was Micah’s only real friend, and he was away, playing European football in Germany. I’d seen it on the big screen in the pub.
With shaky fingers, I swiped out of the internet search and called Micah. I got his voicemail, but I hung up without leaving a message and called again, and again, and again, until the line finally crackled to life.
“Micah?”
Rustling and then a heavy sigh. “What?”
Relief flooded me. It wasn’t exactly a welcome hello, but after days and days of silence, it was progress. “I’m glad you picked up. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure about that? You’ve been gone a while.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I just need to know you’re safe, Micah. I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m safe.”
Are you sure? Where are you? Have you eaten?But instinct told me to tread softly, so I swallowed the barrage of questions down. “Listen,” I said. “I’ve been wondering about what had got you so restless, even before the paparazzi sold those pictures of us. Do you think it’s possible you haven’t been taking your medication properly? That you’ve missed a few doses?”
“What?”
“Your medication,” I repeated. “I was in your room putting clothes away, and I found the boxes. It doesn’t look like you’ve touched them for a while.”
More rustling, a thud, and then a silence that stretched so long I thought my heart would break my ribs. “Micah? Are you there?”
“I’m here. Fuck—” He coughed like an old man. Drew a sharp, pained breath. Then a gravelly, tortured groan shattered the heavy air between us. “The fuck are you even talking about?”
“Your medication. The anti-depressants and the other pills. I think you forgot to take them.”
