I


"So, Mr. Bing, tell me about it. What other physical conditions have you been experiencing?"

"Jumpiness, nervous sweating, exhaustion."

"Recurrent dreams?"

"Sometimes."

The whole idea of him coming here was stupid. His heart was pounding unnecessarily. It was a dingy cell and he was sitting in the middle on a stool, like a specimen to be examined. A lady sat in an armchair right before him, looking through a file. He tried to focus his spiralling thoughts at her appearance. There was nothing to like. She had her hair short-cropped, weird wood-rimmed glasses, a black blazer and a skirt too red to be worn under bright daylight. He could feel her gaze on him. He hated the gaze. It was the way someone would look if their cereal bowl had a worm in it. Chandler clenched his fists. He was sweating again. The hot bulb light in the cramped cell didn't help.

"Mr. Bing, are you listening to me?"

"Frankly? No," he answered bitterly, "Can I have a cigarette?"

"Could you tell me by how much have you increased your cigarette intake?"

"I don't think so. And what kind of sentence is that? Are you a machine?" He took a deep breath to calm down. His passive-aggression kept on popping up now and then these days.

Nothing whatsoever changed the cold stupor the woman had on her face. She was probably all too used to the drama. "Could you recall the incident, at least?"

"I told you, I don't think so," he said, in a much gentler tone this time, "Please try to understand."

"I am, Mr. Bing," she replied, "Maybe you could tell me about your childhood?"

"Look," he exhaled, getting to his feet and searching the floor for his office briefcase before he located it at the foot of the armchair, "This is not working. I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'll make sure you receive the payment though. Now if you don't mind, I have a memorial service to attend."

The woman nodded slowly, as she settled the file at the foot of the chair. "Very well, Mr. Bing. You sure are welcome if you mind returning. In the meantime I'll ask you to spare some time to think about your equation with your friends. Especially Monica Geller, if I may say so."

"If you may say so," Chandler mimed, cruelly mocking her monotone as he stormed out of the door.


Chandler walked along the pavement aimlessly. He lit a cigarette, took a long fulfilling drag and crushed the rest under the shoe, torn between taking the subway and hailing a cab. It was a cab eventually; he was slightly lost as he climbed in – but assuming the fact the taxi began to move without question, he probably did tell the driver the address he was supposed to reach.

It wasn't a long ride, just a few meandering turns and there they were, right in the middle of Manhattan, in front of a sombre-looking apartment complex that already had a heavy number of cars parked. He paid the cabbie and aimed for the backyard, where the gathering was supposed to be, or so he remembered.

He looked up. It was a gloomy, cloudy, polluted sky.

He bumped into the group soon, a quietly muttering huddle of black-clad people with an occasional dash of colour. In the extreme corner he could see Jack Geller, staring into nowhere, a wine glass in his hand. Then there were Ross and Rachel, talking, probably arguing, he didn't care enough right then.

Somebody put a hand on his shoulder. He winced. After a split-second of a battle with himself, he turned. It was Joey. A few yards away was Phoebe, doing virtually nothing, so Chandler was sure she had a worried ear over the conversation. Chandler wondered how unapproachable he had made himself within a week.

"You okay, man?" Joey began.

"I'm fine."

Joey looked concerned. "How did it go with the therapist?"

"Awful. Awful. She almost asked me how much tar I might've bottled up in my lungs."

Joey smiled a painful smile. "She isn't entirely wrong, is she? You've finished up tons of cartons within the few days."

"I know. I might as well die," he began to walk away.

"Chandler, Chandler wait," Joey trailed after him, "I'm not done yet. I wanted to talk to you about something."

He paused unexpectedly, "Go on."

"It's about Kathy."

"What about Kathy?"

"Look, you have to talk to her. I know how the whole thing took a toll on you, but she's worried sick. Her wedding was called off, too. You gotta remember that. This thing – everything – isn't fair on her either."

"I know," Chandler sighed. He almost felt himself going weak at his knees, like a sudden drop in blood pressure. Joey steadied him, "You wanna sit, Chan?"

"I'm okay," he persisted, and then continued, "I can't talk to her, Joey. I don't feel the same anymore."

"You're sayin' you don't love her anymore?"

"No, no. It's like," Chandler paused and searched for words, "I'm changed. I'm too bloody ashamed."

"Of what? How was any bit of what happened your fault? You gotta stop the whole blaming yourself thing I tell ya!"

"You don't understand. You won't understand."

Joey folded his arms in a kind of defiance Chandler had never really seen in him before. "Then make me understand."

Chandler found his temper rising. Why was Joey being so unreasonable? "Okay," he started, seething under his breath, "How hard is it? Can you really, really, picture Kathy and me running into the evening sun while Monica's whole life is falling apart? Can you?"

"Chandler, I didn't –"

"– Can you see us honeymooning at the beach while she's gulping down sleeping pills?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean this way. I'm sorry. I really am."

"Good for you," snapped Chandler, immediately regretting it.

"But, Chandler," Joey's comforting hand was on his shoulder again, "Maybe you should give your therapist another chance? Another session at least?"

"I don't know, Joe –"

"For us. For Monica?" He pleaded.

Against his will, he found his therapist's last words reverberating against his ears. "Okay," he uttered forcefully. Joey patted on his back and stuck to him throughout the gathering, growing more awkward and uncomfortable as the programme progressed and Chandler withdrew into his bitter, sarcastic shell. Soon Phoebe joined in, and Chandler watched the two of them attempt to chit-chat over the most random things possible.

The next person to step onto the podium to speak was Ross. He adjusted the stack of papers before him, cleared his throat and looked at his audience. His eyes lingered on the three of them a little longer than it did on others, before he began, "Dr. Burke was an exceptionally nice man..."

Chandler turned his back, struggling to shut out his ears. He headed back to the pavement. He wanted to go home.

"Where're you goin'?" Joey called out after him.

"I think I'll be off," he mumbled quietly, "So, Monica didn't come, huh?"

Phoebe blurted in the middle. "Oh yes, her morning sickness got worse. And also, you know."

Chandler screwed his eyebrows. "What morning sickness?"

Joey and Phoebe tried not to glance at each other. Joey scratched behind his ear evading Chandler's eye, and Phoebe sipped on her wine pretending to process the question. Chandler gesturing them to speak only made them freeze further. Eventually Phoebe gave in.

"Monica's three months pregnant. Look, she didn't tell us either, we just –"

"Okay," Chandler cut her off mechanically, while he felt a ripping hole through his chest. He made his way to hail another cab. Nobody stopped him this time.


"So, Mr. Bing, could you tell me by how much have you increased your cigarette intake?"

"I did happen to have taken a lot lately. It helps me calm down."

"Hmm. Maybe you could tell me about your childhood?"

"I didn't have a great one."

"Any traumatic incident that you can remember?"

"A particular Thanksgiving."

"What had happened?"

"My parents told me they're about to get a divorce, and that my father was sleeping with the houseboy."

The bulb was just as hot, the cell was just as dingy, and the stool just as uncomfortable as he remembered. The woman's gaze was just the same, the same weird wood-rimmed glasses, short-cropped hair, and this time, a skirt too blue. However, as much as he would like to deny, the conversation right then did help lifting off a certain weight from his chest.

The next question came with an unprecedented weight that almost physically pushed him off the stool. "So can you recount the incident this time?"

Chandler breathed in, almost furiously. "I don't know which part of being an armchair psychiatrist requires asking the patient to relive the nightmare."

"Mr. Bing, I need to –"

"No, really," he hopped up to his feet, no briefcase this time, "I think I'll be out of your sight. You might not see me again for a long, long time."


By the time Joey woke up the next day, Chandler was gone. Joey rubbed his eyes and briskly paced around the living room with a toothbrush. He double-checked Chandler's room – who knew, maybe Chandler had rolled down the bed and ended up underneath. Nothing noticeable had occupied the room, except for that stinking coffee cup which lay there for three days now, and the half-empty bottle of sleeping pills bought only the day before yesterday. It burned his heart to look at it; so much so, he stiffened his jaw and took it away with him as he left the room. He couldn't watch his best friend crumble before his eyes this way.

Soon he changed into his regular shirt and trousers and strolled to Apartment 20. He noticed the office briefcase toppled beside the foosball table, so wherever Chandler was, he definitely hadn't gone back to work.

Rachel, Phoebe and Ross were already there when he knocked in. Ross was reading the newspaper, Rachel slurping cereals and Phoebe blankly staring at the ceiling. The silence was uncomfortable, but then talking would've been even more.

"Hey," said Joey.

"Hey," they all replied, somewhat relieved that someone came in and broke the anxious tension.

"Anyone seen Chandler?"

"Not since morning," whispered Ross.

"And, um, Monica?"

"Hasn't left her room since last day."

Joey reached out for the cereal carton, grabbed a bowl and pulled out the chair aggressively. "Fuck this. I hate how everything's changed." They looked up, scandalised. Joey responded bluntly to the reactions, "What, someone had to say it sooner or later!"

Phoebe nodded understandingly. "I guess Joey's right."

Ross glared at them, "I don't see how complaining's gonna help though."

"Yeah, no it's not. But then, let's think of something we can do, and I think talking will be the right place to begin."

Ross relented. "Okay."

Rachel sighed, disappointedly putting her head down in her arms on the table. "It feels like only yesterday we were sitting here planning weddings."

"I know," said Phoebe, "and Monica's shutting out, Chandler's losing it. It's a mess."

"Maybe we can ask them to talk to each other," Joey suggested, "Chandler's too guilty to even enter this apartment and Monica's too depressed to notice."

Ross shook his head, "What good can come of that? We don't even how they'll feel about each other at the moment. We need to give them time, for all of it to just... slide."

Joey narrowed his eyes at him. "You think Monica blames him?"

Ross looked away, his tone dying down to a mere murmur, "I don't know. I never really asked."

"And do you blame him?" Joey scrutinised him even as he hesitated to answer, "Ross?"

"Look," Ross began, his hands slightly raised in surrender, "It's not that. It's hard enough for me to watch Monica suffer. Maybe somewhere down the line - but no, no! It doesn't matter now. What's done's done, and Chandler's my best friend. When I say I'm there for him, I really am."

Joey scoffed, "Sure."

"Look, man, if you –"

"Stop it, you two!" interrupted Phoebe, "This certainly isn't what I meant when I said talking."

The four of them were interrupted by the sudden noise at the door. It was pushed ajar, and there stood Chandler, his overcoat half-soaked in the rain, his hair still dripping water. He didn't enter – just stood there – like one would in the middle of a stage, as if he had some information to deliver. The others waited with bated breath.

"I ended things with Kathy."


"What the hell are you even talking about?" Joey cried out in frustration even as he trailed a dejected Chandler out in the hall. The others followed suit.

"You heard me."

"No, seriously," said Ross, "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Chandler. I think, I think it's fairly obvious what we mean. Why are you ruining your life this way?"

Chandler turned his back to them, twisting the knob to the door of his apartment. For a while he just continued to twist it, without bothering to push it open. Then he sighed, "I think, I think I'm trying to not ruin anymore lives, this way."

Ross backed off, bitterly exasperated, his arms on his hip, "Yeah, like your stupid sarcasm's gonna change anything," but watching Chandler lose the urge to retort, he mellowed down his tone, "Look, the bottom line is, why are you torturing yourself?"

"Chandler, Ross's right," said Rachel, "Tell us what's going on in your head? We want to help you. Really."

Chandler wheeled a slight angle, not completely turning to them, his fists a little unclenched, maybe a little persuaded. "I wanna help myself too. I don't think any of us can. I'm going down and pulling Kathy down with me. I can't do that to her."

"But Chandler –"

This time he turned, but instead of the flaring-his-nostrils infuriated Chandler they expected, he was calm – a little devastated, sure, with the eye bags and the ruffled hair – but calm, so unnaturally calm he almost threw them off their point. "Look, guys," he said, with a little pat on Ross's shoulder, "I'm okay. I'm really not the one you need to worry about." Rachel opened his mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could begin. "No, seriously," he continued, "Look after Monica. She's the one who needs you at the moment."

Joey raised his hands in mock-surrender and walked past Chandler to his own room, shaking his head, mumbling something inaudible. It vaguely sounded like "No one can argue with you, okay." and "What a load of horseshit."

"And maybe him too," Chandler whispered, as they heard Joey's door slam.


"So, Mr. Bing, any recent developments?"

"Yes, I've ended my engagement."

"What happened?"

"I realised I wasn't good enough for her."

"And she didn't argue?"

"She did. But I stayed put. I thought a wedding won't be the right way to go."

"Why not?"

"I... don't know. I think there may be a slight chance I realised I weirdly had feelings for someone else too. You know what, no, cut it out. I just blabbered crap. That wasn't it. It was just –"

"I see."

The dingy cell and the bright bulb light and the lone stool had become all too familiar now. Maybe the familiarity was what compelled him to gush about things he wanted to keep a secret to his grave. The woman's placid, unbreakable expression melted and she smiled a small smile of triumph. She had wanted to do this since ages – or to be more specific, last two sessions.

"I hate this," he dug his face into his palms, growing hot under the collar, "I so hate this."

"You can be assured that whatever you say in this room remains between you and me, Chandler."

He looked up, surprised at the first-name address. "Yeah?"

"Yes. And are you planning to tell this person about your confused feelings?"

"Not in this life, no."

"Does this have anything to do with that incident?"

"Everything."

The woman looked at him with an added curiosity. He bit his lip and directed his focus at his shoelaces, fidgeting nervously, dedicated to dodge the next question to come.

"Chandler, I know it hurts," she reached out to pat on his hand, "but could you recall the incident once?"

He took a deep, deep breath. His head throbbed viciously. He loosened his tie-knot, settled into his uncomfortable stool, and cleared the emotion off his throat.

"It was two weeks ago. The day of my wedding, and Monica's."


Hello, children. Thank you for being so supportive in the reviews! I love you all, and will update really sooon, I promise. 3