He had built the version of life he was supposed to want. House. Career. Two kids he loved fiercely. From the outside, nothing was missing. From the inside, he felt like a man holding his breath underwater and being praised for how long he could last.
Asking for help wasn't in his vocabulary. It hadn't been since he was eight. So he didn't ask. He worked harder, drank slightly more, slept slightly less, and waited for the next bit of success to make him feel something other than tired.
What changed wasn't dramatic. He booked a first conversation one Wednesday because his sister told him to, and heard his own life described back to him. That was the first crack.
Twelve months later, he isn't a different man. He's a more accurately himself man. He still works hard. He drinks less. He sleeps. He's started talking to his eldest about real things. He asked for help, once, and the world didn't end.
Composite story. Details have been changed to protect identities and do not refer to any single individual.