voicemail.

"Hi, it’s me again. I've been trying to reach you for a week now so just call me please as soon as you can. I'm getting worried Trevor."

I sigh before turning off my phone and flipping to the other side of the bed, staring in silence at the grey wall. Should I get out of bed now? I look at the clock on my bedside table to find that it's indeed 7 pm. Yup, I definitely should get out of bed now.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tilt my head to the side. Huh, I don't look that bad for someone who has been laying in bed for a week. My hair is long and messy but I like it that way; I kinda look like a depressed prince Eric. Did I say depressed? Oh, that's right I did. Well you see, I've been feeling extremely down lately (and by lately I mean a year) and my actions don't fit my personality anymore. Here's an example: There's this guy in your friend group who never sits at home and always encourages his friends to travel on weekends and have some fun; I'm that guy. Or I used to be. Two weeks ago, I started taking these online tests and they all implied that I have depression. I laughed. Google always diagnose you with some crazy shit. However, I went to a therapist a week later to confirm my thoughts about Google being irrational.

"You have depression, Trevor."

"No, I never think about suicide."

"Suicidal thoughts don't have to be a symptom."

"I don't cut."

"You don't have to."

"I don't-"

"I'll see you on Monday."

My conversation with the therapist is replaying through my mind as I take the bowl of popcorn and go back to bed. Season 3 of stranger things is now on Netflix and I can't believe I'm this excited over a TV show. The first episode ended with Billy screaming, which takes me back again to the day I realized that I am depressed.

We were sitting in a booth at a restaurant, three of my friends and I. The waiter just served my fries so I picked up the packet of ketchup. My hands were shaking as I tried to split it open; my hands have been shaking since I've been at the therapist's office in the morning. All my friends were staring at my hands silently. I knew they wanted to comment but no one did, that is until the packet squirted ketchup all over my white shirt causing me to flip over my fries and curse for about 5 minutes straight with frustration.

"Trevor, calm down." Steve muttered from across the booth "Dude you're acting like you're depressed or something."

  

"Actually-" I was about to tell them but Layla cut me off.

"What's wrong with being depressed?" She raised her eyebrows at Steve.

"Nothing. It's just Trevor is a guy and guys rarely get depressed. I mean, it's not like there's anything wrong with your life to get depressed over right Trevor?"

They were all looking at me. All eyes on me.

  

"Yeah right, I'm just mad." I shrugged and changed the subject.

I turn on my phone, going through the voicemail I heard this morning. Steve's voicemail. He's worried he said, and he should be. The only reason I haven't gone out for a week is not that  I'm depressed, fuck depression I can do whatever I want. It's mainly because they will know. As soon as they see me they'll know there's something wrong and they'll ask. They'll ask and I'll break down. They will treat me differently, especially my best friend. Steve.

I place the popcorn aside and pick up my phone. I go through my contacts and click on Steve's name.

"Trevor! Oh my God, where have you been dude I-"

"Shut up and listen to me!" I shouted "I have depression okay? I. am. depressed. Now you have two choices, you either stop being sexist and be fucking there for me when I need you or you fuck off."