Elliot Blake adjusted his tie in the mirror for the third time that morning, his fingers trembling slightly. The knot felt too tight. He loosened it, then tightened it again, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The reflection stared back, familiar yet foreign—a man who looked the part but felt like an imposter inside.
He traced the dark circles under his eyes with a tired glance, remnants of another sleepless night spent wrestling with thoughts he couldn’t silence.
The suit was perfect, the apartment immaculate, the schedule carefully planned down to the last minute. And yet, beneath it all, there was chaos. A storm that never seemed to quiet, swirling just beneath the surface, hidden behind crisp lapels and polished shoes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Today was a big day. The board meeting. The final pitch. The moment his advertising agency had been building towards for months. His moment. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
His fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on the counter—four taps, pause, four taps again. A habit he thought he’d left behind in college, back when anxiety only meant exam jitters and forgotten deadlines. But today, it returned with a vengeance, tapping out the same unrelenting doubts in his mind.
His phone buzzed. Claire.
“Big day! You’ve got this! 😊”
Elliot stared at the screen, his pulse quickening. Claire’s optimism felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. He wanted to believe it—needed to—but the words felt distant, like they belonged to someone else’s reality. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting responses that never quite felt right.
Instead, he pocketed the phone, grabbed his briefcase, and stepped out the door—leaving behind an apartment that felt as hollow as he did.
The office was alive with energy—phones ringing, printers humming, people chattering over half-empty coffee cups. The air buzzed with a sense of purpose Elliot could never quite match. He walked through the chaos with the precision of a man who had rehearsed this role a thousand times. Each step measured, each nod calculated. Keep moving, keep smiling, keep functioning.
“Morning, boss,” Claire chirped, handing him a steaming cup of black coffee. “You’re early. Nervous?”
Elliot forced a chuckle. “Me? Never.”
It came out too fast, too light, the words brushing past the lump in his throat like leaves skimming the surface of a storm. Claire gave him a look—noticing, but not pressing—and he was grateful for it. That was Claire. She never pushed, just saw.
Once inside his office, he shut the door and leaned against it, pressing his forehead against the cool wood. He exhaled shakily, willing the tension to dissolve, but it clung to him like damp fabric.
The coffee sat untouched on his desk, the rich aroma doing little to ground him. His palms were clammy against the polished surface as he scanned the familiar surroundings—the sleek bookshelves, the framed awards, the meticulous desk that looked like it belonged to someone who had his life together.
He glanced at the small, faded Post-it note stuck to his monitor, a relic from when he first started the company.
“You belong here.”
The handwriting was his, but the message felt distant, like something written by a version of himself who actually believed it. He’d stuck notes like these in places he couldn’t avoid, hoping that someday, he’d stop needing them.
He swallowed hard, tracing the edges of the note with his thumb, the paper worn and curling at the edges. It felt like a lie. A quiet, persistent voice whispered back:
What if you mess up? What if you freeze? What if they see through you?
His chest tightened. His heart thudded against his ribs, an unrelenting drumbeat that threatened to drown him. The walls seemed to inch closer, the air growing heavier. He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white, anchoring himself to something solid—something real.
This wasn’t new. It was the same crushing weight that followed him everywhere—the meetings, the parties, the quiet hours in his apartment when the silence was too loud. But today, it felt heavier than ever, pressing against his ribs like an invisible force he couldn’t escape.
A soft knock.
“Elliot? Fifteen minutes,” Claire’s voice filtered through the door, steady and grounding, cutting through the fog of his thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Be right out.”
There was a pause, and then, softer, “You got this, Elliot.”
He couldn’t tell if it was reassurance or a reminder.
Elliot straightened his tie again, his hands moving with mechanical precision. As if fixing the fabric could fix the knots twisting inside him.
You can do this. You always do.
But for the first time, he wasn’t so sure.
The conference room was a battlefield.
Suits lined the long table, eyes watching him with polite expectation. The air was thick with the scent of cologne, faint traces of coffee, and something heavier—anticipation. The hum of the projector filled the room, a steady drone that did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him.
Elliot stood at the front, his fingers gripping the podium like a lifeline, his knuckles pale against the wood. A bright smile was plastered on his face, stretched just a little too tight.
“Today,” he began, forcing his voice to sound steady, “we present a campaign that will redefine our brand’s future.”
The words rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, but they felt off, like a script he’d memorized rather than something he believed in. Hollow. Rehearsed.
His eyes scanned the room, seeing but not really seeing. Faces blurred, features indistinct, their expressions a blend of expectation and indifference. His chest tightened, and suddenly, the screen behind him warped, the slides shifting into meaningless colors and shapes.
His breath hitched.
A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his spine, cold against the heat rising under his collar. He could feel it—the spiral.
Elliot pressed his thumb against the back of his watch, the cool metal grounding him as he counted in sets of three.
One… two… three…
The rhythm should have soothed him, should have pulled him back to the present, but the thoughts swarmed too fast, too loud.
What if they know? What if they see it? The cracks. The weakness.
He felt the weight of his past pressing in, pulling him back to third grade—the spelling bee. The word “necessary” had curled on his tongue, heavy and impossible. The silence. The snickers. The way his teacher’s soft smile didn’t quite hide the disappointment.
Some things didn’t change.
“…as you can see, our projected growth is…”
He faltered. The words blurred into a mess of syllables. His throat tightened, a desperate dryness clawing its way up.
The room fell into a heavy silence.
A pen tapped against the table. Someone cleared their throat.
Seconds stretched into forever.
“I—” He swallowed hard, gripping the podium tighter. Get it together, Elliot.
“Apologies, just a moment,” he forced out, his voice thinner than he wanted it to be.
He turned slightly, inhaling deeply, pressing his thumb harder against his watch. The ticking sound filled his ears.
One breath at a time. Just one.
The walls didn’t cave. The ground didn’t swallow him whole. The storm didn’t win.
He pulled the mask back on, flashing a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s move on.”
By the time the meeting wrapped up, the polite applause felt more like a mercy. He forced himself to nod, shake hands, say all the right things, but his legs carried him to the hallway faster than they should have.
The tie felt too tight again. He loosened it, his breathing shallow, as if he’d run a marathon in dress shoes.
Claire was there. Of course, she was. She always was.
“You okay?” she asked softly, searching his face the way only she could.
He nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Claire gave him a long look, the kind that made it impossible to hide. “You know… you don’t have to do this alone, right?”
For a split second, Elliot considered telling her. Telling someone.
But instead, he smiled—smaller this time, but still forced—and walked away before she could see the cracks beneath the surface.
That evening, Elliot sat in his darkened apartment, the city lights outside flickering like ghosts against the cold glass. The skyline stretched endlessly before him, a vast constellation of windows and streetlamps, each one a life moving forward.
His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, abandoned and forgotten, while his shirt clung to him, wrinkled and damp with the weight of the day. The air felt heavy, thick with the remnants of his exhaustion.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and rubbed his temples. His mind played the meeting back on a relentless loop—the stumble on slide three, the awkward pause when his throat had closed up, the silent exchange of glances between board members. Each moment sharpened into something heavier, sharper.
Why does it always have to be like this?
He hated how anxiety made everything harder—like moving through quicksand while everyone else strolled effortlessly on solid ground. No matter how much he prepared, how much he practiced, there was always the weight. A constant companion, lingering just beneath the surface.
His gaze flickered to the framed photo on the bookshelf—him and his team at last year’s company retreat. Everyone smiling, arms draped casually over shoulders, their laughter frozen in time. He remembered standing there, smiling too, but feeling like he was on the outside looking in.
Maybe it’s time to try something different.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. Claire again.
“You were great today. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”
Elliot stared at the message, his fingers hovering over the screen. His throat tightened, the familiar war of indecision rising inside him. He typed:
“Thanks.”
He deleted it.
Typed again:
“I’m fine, really.”
Deleted it.
The blinking cursor seemed to mock him. Asking for help shouldn’t feel this impossible, but it did. The words felt too big, too heavy, too exposing.
His eyes drifted back to the Post-it note stuck to his monitor, curling at the edges from years of wear.
“You belong here.”
A matching reminder to the one at his office—different place, same struggle.
He exhaled shakily, his thumb brushing over the words on the screen, and typed again—this time slower, more deliberate.
“Thanks, Claire. Actually… I think I do.”
He hovered for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest. Then, with a deep breath, he hit send.
It felt like opening a door just a crack, letting in a sliver of something unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Relief.
Sinking back into the couch, he let the exhaustion take over. The weight was still there, pressing against his ribs, whispering doubts into the corners of his mind…
But for the first time in a long time, it felt… lighter.
Two weeks later.
The chair in the therapist’s office was surprisingly comfortable, yet Elliot sat stiffly, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened. The room was warm, inviting—soft lighting, a bookshelf stacked with titles he’d never read, a faint scent of lavender in the air.
But none of it stopped the nerves crawling under his skin.
Dr. Harris sat across from him, her expression calm, patient. No pressure, no expectations. Just quiet space. Elliot swallowed, staring at the framed diploma on the wall instead of meeting her eyes.
“So, Elliot,” she said gently, “what brought you here today?”
He shifted in his seat, his throat dry. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head a dozen times. Claire had told him there was no rush, no need to say everything at once—but now, faced with the reality of it, the words felt too big, too raw.
He cleared his throat. “I… I guess I’ve just been feeling… off.”
Dr. Harris nodded, offering him time. Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Elliot glanced at his watch, the familiar pressure of his thumb pressing against the cool metal. The same three-count breathing trick. The same routine. The same weight. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Work’s been… a lot.”
Another pause. Then, softer, “A lot how?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s like… I’m stuck in my own head. All the time.”
Dr. Harris nodded again, as if she understood more than he could explain. “That sounds exhausting.”
Elliot let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
He didn’t say everything that first session—far from it. But he said something.
And for now, that was enough.
Did Elliot’s story resonate with you or someone you know? The struggle with anxiety, the pressure to appear “fine,” and the quiet battles fought behind closed doors are more common than you think. Check out more stories like this at PodiumExpress.com and remember—you’re not alone. Help is out there.
