Author's Note: This fic was requested by an anon on my Tumblr. If you would like to submit a request for a fic, you can find me on Tumblr under the same username (mandelene) and send the idea to my inbox!

Warning: This story is going to deal with dark themes such as depression and suicidal thoughts (but there won't be anything graphic), so if any of this may be triggering for you, you may want to skip out on reading this story and maybe check out some of my other fics in the meantime. Of course, I will try to handle these themes with the respect and sensitivity they deserve, but if at any point, anyone feels as though I'm misrepresenting something or being insensitive, please don't hesitate to leave a review or PM me about any concerns. My intention is not to glorify any of these themes, but only to raise awareness and hopefully to let readers who may be going through a tough time know that they are loved and that they are worthy of living happy, beautiful, and fulfilling lives. Also, please know that if you need help, there are support systems and resources you can always reach out to. I'm going to leave the number to the Crisis Hotline in the U.S. here: 1-800-273-8255.

Thank you and stay wonderful.

"When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore." –Elizabeth Gilbert

Amelia wakes up at noon on a Saturday and wonders why the alarm didn't go off. A minute of panic goes by, and then two, before she realizes that—thank God—it's the weekend.

But it doesn't feel like a weekend. If it's really the weekend, she should be out with friends. She should be doing things. Lots of things. Having a drink, partying, going out to the movies, meeting guys—all of the things that real people do.

Here's why that's not going to happen: she's not going to get out of bed until at least three o'clock in the afternoon, and that's if she's lucky. Until then, she's going to lie here under this mess of blankets and drift in and out of sleep while some nature channel on TV fills the apartment with white noise.

She should probably take out the trash and wash the dishes in the sink, or her roommate, Anya, will have another reason to yell at her. She also needs to shower, and change the sheets, and eat a real meal, and probably go outside for a reason other than errands or work, and be normal—for God's sake, Amelia, why can't you just be normal?

It's not the first time she's been unable to find the motivation to get up. She thinks it's just because she's lazy. It doesn't even cross her mind that something deeper might be going on—something more serious.

Among the many other things she tells herself are self-accusations like: stop being dramatic, other people have it worse, you're ungrateful and spoiled, boo-hoo, what do you have to be sad about, get out of bed, you're a loser.

She doesn't think she's sad enough or worthy enough to give her feelings and thoughts a name. For a long time, she doesn't call them what they really are because she's ashamed.

But as much as she tries to convince herself otherwise, it gets to a point where she thinks she might finally know what this is, but she can't be sure, just like she can't be sure about anything else in her life.

Depression.

It's an ugly word—a word she tries not to think about too much because of all of the weight it carries.

No one tells you what depression is really like. At least, no one told Amelia. You don't wake up one day, and boom, you're depressed. You don't have this big revelation. No one knocks at your door and asks you about it. Most people don't even notice, honestly. Sometimes, it comes and goes, but usually, it's somewhere nearby, lurking and waiting for a moment of weakness it can latch onto.

It starts off slow and innocent. It sneaks up on her.

It begins when she starts hitting the snooze button one too many times and ends up being late to work. The old Amelia would never have been late to work, but the new Amelia starts accepting lower standards over time. She rationalizes her poor decisions. For example, what's the point of being punctual to her miserable job filled with miserable people anyway?

She works as a barista at a coffee shop in the heart of Los Angeles' Financial District. It caters to big bankers and entrepreneurs from the upper echelons of society, and unsurprisingly, just being around such people proves to be toxic. She spends exactly eight and a half hours on her feet and always sees her least favorite customer, Lovino, exactly at nine in the morning. He's infamous for having meltdowns when Amelia gives him one shot of espresso instead of two, or, god forbid, adds eleven millimeters of skim milk to his cup instead of ten.

Once she's been late a few times and has been reprimanded by her manager, her whole routine begins to take its toll on her. Monday through Friday, she gets up for work, showers, makes her bed, eats breakfast, brushes her teeth, and deals with horrible customers for the majority of her waking life. All that for just thirteen bucks an hour. She can barely afford to split the rent with Anya anymore. Back when she only worked part-time and was still in school, things were a bit easier because she was in the dorms and her parents would cover a lot of her finances, but then…

She dropped out of college during her last semester because she couldn't show up to lecture, and when she had to explain to Dad and Papa why she wasn't going to class when they were spending thousands of dollars on her education, what was she supposed to say? "Hey, sorry, guys, but I just couldn't get up out of bed?" They'd laugh and then cry, surely.

Dad's an emergency medicine doctor and Papa's a chef who owns his own restaurant in Manhattan. How is she supposed to compete with that?

She was studying computer science for three and a half years before she asked herself why the hell she was studying computer science in the first place, to which she didn't have an answer. Maybe it was because she had to major in something to feel like there was a sense of purpose in her life. Needless to say, it was a mistake.

The worst part of her depression kicks in around thoughts like these—or more specifically when she starts comparing herself to other people. Her twin sister, Maddie, for example, already has a husband, Gilbert Beilschmidt, and he's a lawyer—the definition of a man with a successful and practical career. Maddie works as a high school French teacher, but when she isn't doing that, she's a professional barrel racer—you know, horses and cool stuff that Amelia can hardly wrap her head around. She has her own ranch with actual freaking horses on a beautiful plot of land in Pennsylvania. What a life!

And what does Amelia have? Absolutely nothing. She's stuck brewing coffee. She's an embarrassment to her well-established family—a smear on their picturesque lives.

Next, little offhand thoughts begin popping up in her mind like, "Wow, I fucking suck," and "I just make other people's lives more difficult and cause them problems," and then, the worst one of all, "Well, if my life stays this shitty, I can always just kill myself."

She tells herself she's joking about that last one.

Her life becomes a cycle of going to work, coming home, and not knowing how to find anything positive anymore. She just attracts negativity, and her brain becomes addicted to it. Tell her the weather is nice and she'll think about how global warming is going to eventually wipe out the human race and how everyone is going to die someday.

Negative, negative, negative. It becomes a habit.

All anyone ever does is spend their life chasing money to support themselves. People suffer and die every day, and it isn't fair. Life is ugly. Brutal. Humans are awful creatures. Why shower when she's just going to have to do it again tomorrow? Why eat when groceries cost money that she doesn't have?

No, you can't ask Dad and Papa for help because they've already sacrificed enough for you and you're a burden, Amelia. You ask for too much. You expect the world, but the world owes you nothing. You did this to yourself. You're useless. You're a disappointment.

She doesn't deserve her parents' love, but even now, they worry about her. Dad called not too long ago and left her this voicemail when she didn't pick up:

"Amelia? It's Dad. I'm calling to check in on you. You haven't spoken to Papa or me in over two weeks. Please, just let us know you're all right, and remember that should you ever want to come home for any reason, you're always welcome here. I love you…Talk soon."

That was on Wednesday—three days ago. She still hasn't responded—doesn't know what to say. Dad and Papa have been trying to get her to move back in with them for months now. They're in New York—all the way across the country—and though Amelia knows she should accept their generous offer, she can't. She doesn't want to bother them, and besides, they'll end up treating her like she's fragile.

She's been staying in this small apartment with Anya ever since she dropped out.

"It stinks in here. Did someone die?" Anya asks her later that day. "Are you okay?"

She's still in bed.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Anya doesn't know her well enough to feel comfortable prying, so she just frowns and walks away.

Twenty-three-years-old and she's already broken beyond repair, and it feels like with each passing day, she's falling farther and farther down.

Dad calls again that night.

Again, she doesn't pick up—too disgusted with herself to even listen to her own voice.

On Monday, she calls out sick. She wants to get out the door but can't. She knows this might sound silly to some people. After all, why can't she just pull herself together and go to work? What's so hard about that?

Amelia's not sure.

You can't explain depression to people. They'll just say to get over it or be happy, as though there's some kind of quick fix, but you wouldn't tell someone to just "get over" their diabetes or cancer, and you can't tell someone to get over their depression either.

Why are you depressed?

That's a question she asks herself a lot, and she's sure it's a question lots of people would want the answer to. Of course, she doesn't have a response because she honestly doesn't know. It's a lot of things. There are reasons she hasn't acknowledged yet. It's personal—too personal for her to confront herself at the moment.

Does she have to justify why she feels the way she does? Does it matter?

But it's not the sadness that overwhelms her—it's how tired she is. She's tired of living. So tired. And she can't imagine ever not being tired again.

So, she spends her Monday the same way she spent her weekend—in bed.

Except, this time, a scary thought crosses her mind—a scarier one than all of the previous ones…

I wish I could fall asleep and never wake up.

This is the thought that breaks her. She curls her knees up to her chest and feels tears stream down her face. When she closes her eyes, she hears her brain saying what a failure she is. She didn't study enough. She surrounds herself with the wrong people. She doesn't have any goals. She has thrown her life away. Her parents don't love her—they pity her.

No. That final one isn't true. Her parents have always loved her to a fault, and she never appreciated that love, which is how she stupidly managed to cast them aside.

She's lazy, untalented, loud-mouthed, annoying, and who would ever want to willingly be in her presence? She's a leech—always feeding off of someone else and inconveniencing them.

The world would be a better place without me.

Her phone vibrates.

Dad.

He would be devastated if something ever happened to her—she knows that. She can't put him through that kind of pain. As much as she hates herself, she loves Dad, Papa, and Maddie too much to cause them grief and suffering, but she doesn't know how to get out of this hole she's dug herself into.

Her phone keeps going.

Bzzt…Bzzt…Bzzt…

Finally, with shaking hands, she picks up.

"Hello? Amelia? Are you there?"

Dad's voice…She has missed it so much. She misses the days when she could turn to her parents for everything and never had to worry about a thing because she knew they would take care of it. There was always someone for her to look up to.

"I'm here," she replies, breath hitching.

"Oh, I'm so relieved that—are you crying? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"What for?"

"Everything."

"…Amelia, don't say that."

Does he know?

Of course, he knows. There isn't much that Dad doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't realize the extent of what's going on here, but he must be piecing it together now.

"Dad, I'm so sorry."

"Darling, please, don't apologize," Dad says, and the calmness of his tone makes everything seem less daunting and insurmountable. "What's going on? Talk to me."

"I'm in a bad place, Dad," she tells him, and saying all of this aloud is draining. She sniffles and wipes her face, trying to keep it together. "A really bad place."

"…It's all right. I'm here now. You can tell me anything. I'm so happy you picked up the phone. I know it must have taken a great deal of courage," Dad whispers. He knows.God, why does he have to know? "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"…I'm going to ask you a question that I know you don't want to be asked, but you don't have to be afraid of giving me an honest response. I want the truth, all right?"

"Dad…"

"Are you having suicidal thoughts?"

"Y-Yes."

Suddenly, everything seems real. Her depression wasn't a concrete, actual thing until now. She's crying so hard that her eyes burn and her head feels like it might explode. The air becomes heavy and suffocating. She waits for Dad to yell or cry, but he doesn't.

He stays miraculously composed and tranquil. "Do you feel like hurting yourself?"

"No, I'm…God, I just…Fuck, it's so stupid. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, and it's not stupid…Is there someone with you?"

"No, Anya left for work."

"Do you have a friend you can ask to stay with you for a few hours?"

Amelia scoffs. "What friends?"

"In that case, and I know you're not going to like this, but I think you should go to the hospital—for your own safety."

"No, I'm not sick," Amelia protests, muffling a sob into her pillow. This is so dumb. Why did she pick up the phone?

"Amelia, my dear, please…I'm going to find the earliest flight I can get to Los Angeles, but I likely won't be there until tomorrow, and therefore, I need to ensure you'll be all right until then."

"No, you don't have to come here. I just had a moment of weakness. I'll be fine. Really, Dad."

"I know I can't make this decision for you, but seeking help is nothing to fear or be ashamed of. There are professionals at the hospital who will be able to help you. If you're evaluated and told you can go home, then that's wonderful, and I'll be there as soon as I can, but if it's determined that you would benefit from being hospitalized for a little while, and you voluntarily agree to it, you'll feel better and will have the ability to leave whenever you wish. All I would then ask of you is that you stay there overnight. I can pick you up afterward."

She hates herself for being this weak.

"Please, love. I only want to help. I understand you're in a very difficult position at the moment. I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think—"

"Okay," Amelia agrees, cutting him off. "I'll go."

Dad lets out a sigh of relief. "I'm so proud of you. I know this isn't at all easy. I'll stay on the phone with you until you get there, okay?"

"Okay," Amelia shakily replies, nodding even though she knows Dad can't see her.

At long last, she gets out of bed.

"I'm really scared."

"I know, but you're not alone. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere until you're in good hands. Let me know the address of the hospital you're going to once you've decided on one."

"Okay…Promise me you'll come alone? I-I don't want Papa to worry, and I'm not ready…"

"I understand. I promise."

"I should shower before I go. I'm gross."

"Don't worry about that at the moment."

She hasn't talked this much in a long time, but it feels good. Actually, maybe not good, but better. She trusts Dad, and if he thinks this'll help, then she'll do it.

She needs someone right now, anyone.

Once Amelia walks into the hospital, and Arthur is certain she's out of any immediate danger, he tells her he loves her and that she'll be okay one last time before ending the call.

While he may seem calm and collected on the outside, he's on the cusp of having a heart attack on the inside from the amount of worry in his chest.

"Arthur? Were you just on the phone with Amelia? What's wrong?"

He swipes a hand over his stinging eyes and struggles to lift his head up to look at Francis. He has to tell him the truth. "I need to get to Los Angeles as soon as possible."

Francis frowns, forehead creasing. "Did something happen? Is Amelia all right? Mon amour, are you crying?"

Arthur sighs. He can allow himself to feel now that he's no longer on the phone. "Everything is under control, but Amelia's in the hospital."

Here comes the panic.

"What? Why?"

"She's…She's been having suicidal thoughts."

Francis covers his eyes with his hand and pales. "Please don't tell me she's hurt."

"She's fine. I persuaded her to go to an emergency room to be evaluated."

"I'll start looking for a flight."

"Wait, Francis," Arthur stops him by blocking the doorway of their bedroom. "There's more, but I'd like you to promise me you won't take this personally and that you'll be understanding about it."

"I don't like where this is going…But all right."

Arthur takes his hand and squeezes it. "She wants me to come alone. She said she's not ready to see anyone else at the moment."

"She doesn't want me there? I'm her father, too, in case it's slipped your mind!"

"She's overwhelmed," Arthur tries to explain. "The fewer visitors, the better. Please, don't be upset."

"I'm not upset," Francis assures, but it's clear this is a lie. "I'm very worried about her."

"As am I."

"Bring her home."

"I will."

"In that case, let me start helping you pack."

In medicine, there's a procedure for everything, which means there's a right and wrong way to do things. Amelia has witnessed this firsthand from the handful of times Dad has jumped in during an emergency—like when Maddie was nine and had a severe allergic reaction to a bee sting while playing in the park.

She has seen the switch flip in his eyes. He can, somehow, in a moment of chaos, let go of all emotion. When Maddie was sitting there, on that park bench, struggling to breathe, she stopped being his daughter for just a moment. She became a patient, and patients are all treated the same, no matter who they are. It's always the same procedure.

Amelia thinks about this as she walks into the ER and tells the triage nurse she's having suicidal thoughts. There isn't any fanfare. The nurse doesn't frown, comment, or do anything that might suggest she is capable of empathy. She just follows the procedure she's been trained to follow. She takes Amelia's vitals, checks her height and weight, gets a hospital bracelet on her wrist, and has her wait for a doctor. A security guard sits with her to make sure she doesn't try injuring herself at any point.

And when a doctor appears to evaluate her, he knows the procedure, too. He stands at the other end of the room and goes through a bunch of questions with her, and the whole time, he's stone-faced. Is this what textbooks and medical journals say to do when someone's suicidal? Act like a robot? She's pretty sure the staff would be speaking to her differently if she came in with chest pain or a cough.

Maybe they're afraid of upsetting her, but don't they realize that what's really upsetting is how detached everyone is? Why can't someone just tell her it's going to be okay? Why can't they talk to her like she's a normal human being?

How long have you been having suicidal thoughts?
Did you have a plan?
Do you still feel like hurting yourself right now?

Those initial questions are eerily similar to the ones Dad asked her over the phone. Like everyone else, it appears as though he was just following procedure as well.

Are you on any medications for depression?
Have you previously had suicidal thoughts or attempted suicide?
Did something trigger you to feel this way today?
Do you have a history of depression or mental illness in your family?
Have you ever spoken to a counselor or therapist?

And once the doctor has checked enough boxes in her chart, he has her go through the usual protocol of having her get a blood and urine sample taken. Then, he comes back an hour later to ask if she would accept treatment and agree to be hospitalized.

Remembering the instructions Dad gave her over the phone, she readily agrees.

In-patient treatment isn't glamorous, wild, or anything like it's portrayed in the movies she's watched. It's monotonous and clinical. She gets her phone taken away along with her keys, watch, and any other items the nurse deems she might be able to use to harm herself. The nurse does a lot of talking and explaining, and then, a psychiatrist comes to speak with Amelia. She is encouraged to participate in the group activities on the unit, but she's honestly not ready to take that step.

She doesn't feel better, but she doesn't feel worse either. She's safe though, and that's what Dad wanted.

Vitals, meds, group activity, meal, group activity, snack, group activity, free-time, and then, lights out. That's how the day goes.

Almost everyone around her seems to be sicker than she is, and so communicating with any of the other patients proves to be almost impossible.

She wants to leave.

Arthur hates flying. Sitting in the most uncomfortable chair known to mankind for six hours straight is not his cup of tea. It also doesn't help that his back has decided to start causing him trouble lately. He's aging against his will.

But none of that matters. Amelia is his priority, and if that means he's going to have to be downing painkillers this entire trip just to walk upright when he's on solid ground again, so be it. According to the last text he received from her yesterday evening, she was admitted for treatment after all. This means she doesn't have her phone on her anymore, and so, Arthur finds himself growing increasingly anxious with each passing hour. He no longer knows what kind of state she's in.

He stares at his watch and wishes time would move faster. He'll feel much better once he sees Amelia is safe and in one piece.

His plan is to pick her up once she's discharged and to get on a flight back to New York with her tomorrow. But what if she doesn't want to come with him? He can't leave her in California. The stress and constant anxiety of not having her nearby will destroy him.

When he lands, he gets a taxi to the hospital and is forced to bring his luggage with him. Fortunately, he packed light despite the fact that Francis kept trying to convince him to do otherwise. All he has is a backpack filled with his most essential medical supplies and a small suitcase on wheels that contains a change of clothes, his phone charger, and basic toiletries.

There's traffic on the way from the airport to the hospital, of course. When isn't there traffic in Los Angeles? Then again, he can't say New York is much better in that regard.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, he finally gets to his destination. After going through security in the lobby and getting granted a visitor's pass, he heads up to the psych unit, bracing himself for the worst.

He talks to one of the nurses on the floor, and she has him sit in a little common room. He waits about fifteen minutes, and then, he sees Amelia tiptoeing toward him. She's thinner than he remembers, and her hair is longer, but otherwise, she's the same Amelia he has raised and loved.

He doesn't say anything at first—just tosses his arms around her for a hug and presses her head against his shoulder so he can take in everything about her that he has missed. She's here and she's unharmed.

He has never felt so relieved in his entire life.

She's alive. He almost lost her. The thought makes him sick to his stomach.

He can feel her ribs poking out through her shirt, and her eyes are rimmed with dark purple bags, but he can also feel the thrum of her heart against his chest as he holds her close.

"How are you feeling?" he asks before immediately regretting it. What kind of question is that? Obviously, she feels awful.

"I don't want to stay here," she mumbles into his shoulder.

"I know…You can request to be discharged now, if you're ready, that is."

"Yeah, I already brought it up with the nurse because I figured you'd be here soon. Just waiting to talk to the psychiatrist so I can be cleared by her first…Thanks for coming."

"Don't thank me…It's my job to be here."

She strains a weak smile and keeps hugging him, not willing to let go just yet. "I missed you."

"I missed you as well. A great deal, in fact."

"Is Papa okay?"

"He's fine, but he's awfully worried about you."

"And Maddie? Does she know?"

"I spoke to her last night. She asked that you call her as soon as you feel comfortable enough to talk."

Amelia starts to cry again, and Arthur is overcome with worry once more. He rubs her back and keeps his hold on her, but he doesn't speak. Something tells him she wants him to be silent.

"I'm a mess," Amelia mutters after wiping wearily at her face.

"Shh, no, you're not."

"I want to come home."

Well, that certainly makes matters much simpler.

"Okay. We'll get on a plane first thing in the morning. For now, let's find out where that psychiatrist is and get you discharged."

She feels like a little kid again, but that turns out to be a good thing. Dad takes the reigns and brings things under control so she doesn't have to. He talks to her doctor and nurse about outpatient services she should explore and what the next course of action should be in ensuring this doesn't happen again, and when he walks out of the hospital with her, she holds him by the arm and lets herself be fussed over. She hasn't been treated this kindly in a long time.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"Not really."

"Did you have lunch on the unit?"

She didn't. It was offered to her, but she didn't have an appetite—still doesn't. That said, that's one thing she doesn't want Dad fretting over, and so, she muddles the truth. "Yeah."

She can tell he doesn't believe her. She's never been a very good liar.

But, surprisingly, he doesn't press her on it. "Okay, so then where are we off to?"

"The apartment, I guess. I should—uhh—start getting my stuff ready for tomorrow…I texted Anya that you were coming, so it shouldn't be a problem. I hope you don't mind sleeping on the couch."

"That's fine."

"Okay, cool…I'm really sorry again about this, Dad. It's—"

"For the last time, don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for. Can we walk from here or do we need to get a cab?"

"It's a ten-minute walk, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

She hopes Anya cleaned up the living room and did the dishes yesterday. Although she knows Dad won't really care about the state of the apartment at this point, she still wants to prove she doesn't always live like a slob. She can't let him see her bedroom, that's for certain.

Anya's still at work, so at least they'll have a couple of hours to themselves, but Amelia hasn't decided if that's a good or bad thing. Honestly, she feels awkward. What is someone supposed to talk about with their father after they've been having suicidal thoughts? They can't just put this behind them. Dad's going to talk about it with her in greater detail eventually.

At any rate, it doesn't appear as though he's interested in having that conversation now, which is a relief. He's acting pretty normal about this, all things considered.

He doesn't make any comments about the apartment once they're inside and taking off their shoes. She offers to take Dad's bags and his coat, but he brushes off all of her attempts at hosting him and insists on helping himself. She'd offer him tea, but only Anya drinks tea around here, and she's not sure if her roommate would be happy if she took some of hers without asking. Anya can be unpredictable, and so, Amelia would rather not take any chances.

Dad gets himself settled in and gets straight down to the business of helping Amelia pack her bags. She can't take everything with her—just the important stuff. It's not like she has that many possessions anyway with how frugally she's been living. A small budget doesn't leave room for luxuries.

And after the bulk of her junk has been packed up, she gets herself to shower. It feels incredible to be clean again, and this is the most productive she's been in weeks. The best part, however, is the solace that comes with knowing she gets to quit her job and never return. Even if she comes back to L.A., she's never stepping foot in that coffee shop ever again.

Shortly after her shower, Anya returns, and she's the definition of polite when she sees Dad. It's odd—Amelia's never seen her act this nice. Not that she never acts nice—she just usually keeps her distance, is all.

"It's so nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Dad says, introducing himself just as politely and eloquently.

How do they do it? Amelia can't do anything remotely graceful or adult-like.

But, it seems Amelia hasn't fully stepped into an alternate reality because, in typical Anya fashion, her roommate doesn't say much. She makes some short small talk and heads back to her own room, shutting herself away yet again. In all of the time Amelia has lived here, she doesn't think she's gotten to know Anya enough to even tell someone how she takes her coffee or what she likes to do for fun. They have always co-existed together in parallel planes—never intersecting. They're in their own separate realms of loneliness, and that's been their mutual arrangement.

"She seems nice," Dad says quietly once Anya is out of earshot.

"Yeah," Amelia agrees because it seems like the right thing to do.

"We should order something for dinner. It's getting quite late."

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Whatever you'd like."

Amelia rolls her eyes, and suddenly, for just a split second, it feels like nothing has changed and she never left her parents' home. The gentle bickering is familiar and comforting. "I asked you first."

"And I assured you that I don't have a preference."

"Okay, Thai, it is."

When the food arrives, they eat in silence. She can feel Dad glancing over at her plate every few minutes or so, and it's because she's picking at her fish. She knows she needs to eat and function and be normal, but she can't. Things aren't normal. She just got out of the hospital, and everything is going to be different now. Dad's not going to trust her. He's not going to look at her the same way again, and neither will Papa and Maddie. She will be seen as a hazard to herself. Worse, they're going to feel sorry for her, and that's the last thing she wants.

Again, that voice in the back of her mind jeers, "You did this to yourself."

Her heart gallops with anxiety, and a moment later, she's setting her plate aside and has to run to the kitchen sink to be sick because she can't make it to the bathroom.

Dad comes up behind her and holds her hair back.

"Shit, I'm sorry," she rasps when she's done. Thank God Anya washed the dishes after all, which makes this situation partially less degrading. "I-I have to clean this up and—"

"No, you're going to lie down. I'll handle this," Dad insists, steering her into her bedroom, which, by the way, still looks like a tornado blasted through it.

Back in bed again. Now she's going to have to fight herself to get out of it once more after her stomach calms.

Dad goes off to disinfect the sink with bleach, and Amelia burrows underneath her blankets and pillows in shame. She's not sure how long she stays like that, but she doesn't get pulled out of her stupor of self-hatred until she feels a hand rubbing her shoulder.

"You're going to get through this," Dad says. "One step at a time."

She doesn't believe him.

A change of scenery might be good. Anything beats being in this apartment.

So, when morning comes, Amelia feels inspired enough by this glimmer of hope that she's able to get dressed, have some cereal, and double-check to make sure she has everything she intends to bring with her to New York. She's up and ready to go around eight o'clock, which she considers a personal victory. Dad's awake at the crack of dawn, but that's because he was jetlagged last night and was passed out on the couch by nine.

All that's left is to say goodbye to Anya, and well, it's not a tearful goodbye by any means, but Amelia finds herself being bummed anyway because although they've always been aloof around each other, Anya put up with a lot of her crap over these last months.

"I hope everything works out for you," she tells Anya, genuine as can be. "Thanks for not kicking me out three months ago."

Anya smiles dryly at her. "Thanks. Take care of yourself, and…stay in touch, okay?"

She's probably saying that just to be nice. Amelia can't imagine why the girl would actually want to stay in touch with her.

"Sure thing…"

"I mean it," Anya adds, looking very serious for a second before she turns to Dad and shakes his hand. "And it was nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. Have a safe flight."

"Thank you, and I apologize for the intrusion. Take care," Dad replies without missing a beat, and then, that's that.

Amelia's still reeling from Anya's farewell when they get into yet another cab. Maybe she will give her a call someday…If she can find the strength, that is.

She doesn't say much to Dad during the drive to the airport, and he doesn't try to initiate a conversation with her either. She can tell he's trying to give her some space, and so, while he's texting Papa and reading up on the news on his phone, Amelia shuts her eyes and tries to relax, letting the sounds of the road and the car soothe her.

It isn't until the driver goes over a pothole that she's shaken out of the serenity. The cab jostles, and they all get thrown from side to side a little bit. The driver apologizes, and it doesn't seem like it should be a big deal, but Dad suddenly hisses and snaps his eyes shut, looking pained.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

He nods and tries to quickly reassure her that it's nothing, but his shoulders are tense and his teeth are clenched.

"What was that all about?" she asks, not letting him off the hook so easily.

"Nothing you need to trouble yourself with. I'm merely old, and my back is giving out," he jokes darkly.

Amelia scoffs. Dad's middle-aged but has a habit of acting like he's ready for retirement. "You're not old yet, but you should have said something sooner. I wouldn't have made you sleep on the couch if I knew."

"As I said, it's nothing to trouble yourself with," Dad repeats.

It's actually kind of a relief to be able to talk about someone else's problems for once, and Amelia wants to take the opportunity to divert the attention from herself for a little while. "Did you do something to mess it up?"

"I have a suspicion it has something to do with how I helped two paramedics lift a patient off of a stretcher a few weeks ago, but I can't be certain."

"You should probably get that checked out."

Dad rolls his eyes and absently rubs a hand over his lower back. "I'll be fine."

"Are you gonna be okay on the flight?"

"Yes, of course."

"Does Papa know?"

"You're full of questions today, aren't you?" Dad asks a little tiredly, but there isn't any bite in his words.

"I'll assume that means no."

"Are you going to be okay on the flight?" he asks her instead, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah," she says with a weary smile of her own. Then, she throws Dad's words back at him, "It's nothing to trouble yourself with."

He chuckles. "All right, you've made your point."

"If I have to talk about my issues with you, you have to talk about yours with me."

"That's not how this works, and I didn't agree to such rules."

"Well, those are the rules now," Amelia decides.

Dad sighs but doesn't try to argue, probably because they've finally made it to the airport and his mind is already on other matters. He pays the driver, climbs out of the cab, and takes both his and Amelia's bags, which is too much for one person to carry, especially for a person who was just complaining about their bad back.

"See? This is why you're in pain. I'm capable of carrying my own stuff," Amelia scolds him, trying to snatch her carry-on and suitcase out of his grasp. "I'm an independent woman who doesn't need a man taking my things. Let go."

Reluctantly, he lets her help, and that's a sign that he's really not feeling too great. Normally, they'd have to argue for at least another ten minutes before coming to an agreement. Amelia's worried, even though she knows Dad can, in theory, take care of himself. He should know better than to be straining himself.

Whatever—if he wants to be stubborn about it, so be it. Amelia will be there to tell him off when the time is right.

For now, they get through TSA and successfully find their seats on the plane. She's got the window seat, and so, Dad's the only one sitting next to her, which is a good thing because the number one thing she hates about being on planes is when she gets smooshed in between two people.

"Is Papa going to pick us up when we land?" she asks.

"Yes, is that all right?"

She has missed Papa and wants to see him, but she doesn't want him to overreact and start smothering her, which he's been renowned for doing in the past. Dad can worry too much as well, but he decidedly has a milder approach to these types of situations.

"Yeah, that's fine."

She daydreams for a bit and listens to some music, and then, the sleepiness caused by waking up early for the first time in ages catches up with her. She tells herself she's just going to rest her eyes for a few minutes, but she very quickly ends up dozing off instead. She wakes up at some point and notices her glasses are on the brink of falling off her nose and that her head is leaning against Dad's shoulder.

Before she can lift an arm, Dad takes her glasses off, looks at her half-open eyes, and murmurs, "Go back to sleep. We have three hours left."

Now that she's getting farther and farther away from California, she's suddenly aware of how the loneliness of these past months has been exhausting. She's unused to being around anybody for longer intervals of time, family or not. Even if it's just Dad, him being here is an abrupt reminder that her life is not as empty and devoid of company as it has recently felt.

She, quite literally, has a shoulder to lean on.

"Amelia!" Papa exclaims as soon as he sees her, and she's trapped in another hug. "My goodness, you're skin and bones! How did—?"

He stops because Dad shakes his head and sends him a look that clearly means, "don't bring anything up."

So Papa puts on his best smile and says, "It's been too long since you've visited us. It's good to have you home."

Which sounds a lot to Amelia like, "We're happy we can keep an eye on you so you won't think about killing yourself again."

She knows that's not what Papa means, but her depression tells her that's what he means.

Though she was starting to feel a little more optimistic this morning, all of that changes as soon as she's back in her old bedroom in her parents' house. She goes to bed early and ends up stuck in the same cycle she was in back in LA. She won't get up, won't eat, and can't think of a single non-destructive or non-negative thought.

Papa and Dad give her a couple of days before intervening in the hopes that she'll feel better with some time to settle in, but that doesn't work. Amelia is right back to not functioning.

One night, Papa loses it. She applauds him for keeping calm this long.

When he sees that she isn't eating any of her dinner, he asks her to at least give it a try.

To which she habitually replies, "Not hungry."

And Papa, in all of his worry, snaps. "Don't you see you're killing yourself? Why are you doing this? You need to eat and stop lying in bed! Stop moping around!"

If only he knew this is the same lecture she gives herself every day.

"Francis!" Dad shouts, standing up from the kitchen table. "Enough. Getting frustrated isn't going to—"

Before he can finish, Papa buries his face in his hands and ends up in tears. He mumbles an apology and storms away, and Dad is left frozen in place, not sure whether he should go off to console him or stay with Amelia.

He stays with her.

"Don't take any of that to heart. He didn't mean to lose his temper. He's concerned, that's all."

"No, it's okay. I know I'm hard to deal with. I know he doesn't understand why I won't just start acting normal again," Amelia whispers, and everything hurts—her whole body. It's a burning feeling, and it races from her chest to her toes and her head. "What he said was true."

"Amelia…This is a difficult time for all of us and—"

"All of us? Right. I'm the problem in the family now, and I'm upsetting everyone. I'm so sorry my depression is inconveniencing you guys."

"That's not what I meant. You're putting words in my mouth. You're not inconveniencing anyone."

"I can always count on you to lie to me to make me feel better, Dad," Amelia scoffs, and it hurts to talk to him in this way, but she can't stop. The depression has fully rooted itself and taken hold of every part of her.

"Trying to pick a fight with me in the hopes that I'll walk away, too, is not going to work. We're a family, and that means we're not going to leave you to deal with this alone."

No, he's not supposed to say that. He's supposed to be angry and prove to her that she's a lost cause.

She purses her lips and tries to hold back tears of her own. "I'm not worth it. I'm not worth the trouble it'll take to save me."

"Don't you ever say that again, am I clear? I won't tolerate it. If anything ever happened to you, I would never be able to forgive myself, and neither would your papa. We love you, and we're going to do whatever it takes to get you the help you need, and that starts with finding you a good team of mental health professionals and a support system beyond just your papa and myself."

This ends up being the tipping point. Dad goes off to talk to Papa, and Amelia stays at the table a few minutes longer, chin lowered as she stares at her full plate of food with contempt. She doesn't know it then, but the next few weeks are going to consist of a series of appointments with a psychiatrist and a therapist. She will be frustrated, more with herself than anyone else. She will try to push everyone away—try and fail, and then try again.

She'll get prescribed an antidepressant by her psychiatrist in the form of an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), and although she'll get the prescription filled, she won't actually take the pills. She just lets the bottle get dusty on her nightstand.

But she will finally call Madeline—have a ten-minute talk with her that ends up being awkward and uncomfortable for both of them because Maddie feels the need to tread on eggshells with her, and Amelia has forgotten what it's like to talk about something that isn't depressing.

Her parents, meanwhile, still search for solutions—grasping at straws to get the "old" Amelia back.

Around four weeks into her therapy sessions, her therapist has her sit down together with Dad and Papa for a session. They talk about the usual stuff—how things are going at home, how Amelia's doing with meeting her short-term goals, what steps they're taking to help her get back to having a normal routine, and how she can start to eat without feeling anxious or immediately wanting to throw up. The fact is, she hasn't made that much progress.

Somewhere in that conversation, an idea strikes Dad.

"How about you stay with your sister for a few weeks?" he suggests.

Amelia's therapist immediately jumps on board and says how great she thinks it would be for her to see Maddie. Of course, they'll still have their bi-weekly therapy sessions, except they would be over the phone rather than in person. She also says Maddie and her husband are an integral part of her support system, and so, spending some time with them could be a good thing.

"I don't know…It's been a while," Amelia responds, not as thrilled.

"Give it some thought," Papa encourages. He's been uncharacteristically meek around her since his outburst, and it's driving her insane.

"Okay, fine, I'll think about it."

Three days later, she finds herself packing her things once more and sitting in the back of Dad and Papa's car for the two-hour drive from New York to Quakertown, Pennsylvania. It's the heart of July, and so, the area is stunningly beautiful and rustic. There are valleys of green everywhere she turns, and she has to wonder why she hasn't moved to a place like this already.

"Almost there," Papa says, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

She imagines herself running through the tall grass and basking in the sunshine, and it's the first happy thought she's had in a month.

She doesn't think she'll be going back to New York anytime soon.