by David W. Jones
The rain had been falling for hours, but Jordan only noticed when the rhythm of it disappeared behind a scream—one not from his mouth, but from somewhere more profound, invisible, and endless.
He sat in the middle of his apartment, cross-legged on a pile of unfolded laundry, staring at the walls as if they might crack open and release the pressure building in his skull. The voices had returned. Not real ones—not really. But they were loud, nonetheless.
“You failed.”
“You’re behind.”
“She was right to leave.”
“Tomorrow is too late.”
They came one by one, then all at once. Jordan covered his ears out of reflex, as if hands could block what lived inside. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the tap-drip from the kitchen sink, and the buzz of a distant streetlight were no match for what his mind had conjured.
The room pulsed with accusation.
Breaking Point
Just yesterday, he had smiled through a Zoom meeting while his chest tightened. Just last week, he’d told a friend, “I’m just tired,” when really he couldn’t remember what rested sleep felt like. Just last month, he believed he could still hold it all together.
But now the scaffolding had collapsed.
“You have so much potential.”
“You never listen. You don’t know how to stay.”
Each syllable carved into memory, now replaying in surround sound.
Collapse
At 3:08 AM, Jordan lost track of how many voices there were. At 3:09 AM, he screamed. Just once. It wasn’t loud, but it was real.
A cup shattered when he swept the counter clean with his forearm. His throat ached from nothing. The apartment swirled in mess—dishes, unpaid bills, an untouched therapy referral on the fridge, magnet-cocked like an afterthought.
And then, stillness. No more noise. No more thoughts. Just the heavy silence of post-collapse.
Stillness
Jordan dropped to the floor. The texture of the wood against his cheek was grounding. He stared at the ceiling. There was a crack running from one corner to the light fixture. He hadn’t noticed it before.
The hum of the refrigerator returned. Somehow, it comforted him.
At 4:12 AM, something stirred behind the window. The latch was loose, and the frame creaked open an inch. A small gray cat stepped through from the neighboring fire escape, cautious but confident. It blinked at Jordan from the windowsill, then dropped to the floor and curled at his side, purring.
Jordan didn’t move. The purring was a lullaby.
“I’m still here,” he whispered, unsure if he meant himself or the cat.
Beginning Again
The morning light broke slowly, turning gray into gold. The storm had passed. Not just outside, but within.
The voices hadn’t disappeared, but they no longer shouted. Now they whispered, and Jordan could whisper back.
By 6:00 AM, Jordan rose from the floor and walked to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water with both hands—just in case one couldn’t manage.
Then, he sat at the kitchen table, found his journal, and opened it to a blank page.
“I heard a thousand voices last night.
Only one was mine.
It was the quiet one.
But it stayed.”
He closed the notebook. The cat had climbed onto the table and was sleeping in a patch of sunlight.
Jordan picked up his phone.
He texted his therapist: “I’m ready to talk.”
Then, he scrolled through his contacts and called his mom. It rang once before being picked up.
Story Based On Blog Post: May 18, 2025
Write Now and Later 