7 Days to Live by Adam Scott

Ethan Cole perched on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the worn carpet beneath him. The gray fibers seemed to hold no answers, yet he stared as if they might reveal some hidden truth he'd overlooked. The house hummed with the familiar morning symphony—the clatter of dishes, his wife's gentle urgings to their children, the patter of small feet hurrying down the hallway. To them, it was just another Tuesday. To him, it was the dawn of his final stand.

The decision had been made the night before, in the quiet darkness of his room. Seven days. That was all he would give himself. If nothing changed, if life offered no glimmer of hope, he would end it. The thought no longer terrified him; instead, it provided a strange sense of solace. There was a grim comfort in setting a deadline, even one so final.

He reached for the nightstand drawer and retrieved an old notebook, tucked away beneath a jumble of cords and forgotten receipts. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed with age. He hadn't opened it since his college days, when life seemed full of possibilities and dreams. Back then, it was filled with poems, unfinished stories, and lists of aspirations. Now, his hand trembled as he picked up a pen.

The blank page stared back at him, accusing and empty. He didn't know where to begin, so he forced himself to write three words.

Empty. Exhausted. Worthless.

The pen pressed hard into the paper with the last word, as if trying to drive it deeper. He stared at them until the letters swam before his eyes, then whispered them aloud, "Empty. Exhausted. Worthless."

The words hung in the air, harsh and unyielding. They were ugly, brutal, but speaking them aloud felt like a release. The heaviness in his chest didn't lift, but it shifted, as if the darkness within him had been dragged into the light. At least now it had a name.

For a long time, he sat there, the notebook open, the morning world rushing on without him. Finally, he leaned over the page again, the pen scratching out his thoughts.

Depression has stolen my laughter. I used to find joy in everything. The silliest things could make me laugh until tears streamed down my face. My wife said she fell in love with my laughter, with the way it could fill a room. Now, I can't remember the last time I laughed. I don't smile. I don't feel light. It's as if that part of me has been erased. Writing this down hurts, but maybe it's still in me somewhere. Maybe it's just buried deep.

He let the pen fall, his chest aching with a familiar pain. He pressed his palms against his eyes, seeing stars in the darkness behind his lids. The notebook felt like a dangerous secret, a door he'd opened without knowing what lay beyond. Yet, there was a spark—a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of relief. Yesterday, he had nothing but silence. Today, he had three words.

He slid the notebook back into the drawer as his wife called his name from downstairs. He forced himself to stand, to walk toward the sounds of his children's voices, to play the role he always played. But as he moved, the echo of his whispered words clung to him. They were raw, painful, but they were his truth.

For the first time in a long time, he had spoken it aloud.

And though nothing had really changed, it felt like something had shifted, like a tiny crack had appeared in the darkness that had been consuming him.

Day 2

Ethan didn't want to move. The alarm blared at 6:30, vibrating against the nightstand, and he silenced it with a swipe of his hand, eyes still closed. His head throbbed, his body felt leaden, anchored to the mattress. He listened to the house stirring to life—the distant hum of water through pipes, his wife's soft footsteps, the faint creak of floorboards—and told himself it didn't matter if he stayed in bed all day.

What's the point? he thought, staring at the ceiling. Nothing's going to change.

But his gaze drifted to the nightstand, to the notebook lying there, waiting. Yesterday's words echoed in his mind: Empty. Tired. Useless. He had written them down, spoken them aloud, and somehow, that act had mattered. Not enough to ignite hope, but enough to keep him here for another day.

Seven days, he had promised himself. Seven days to try.

With a heavy sigh, he rolled out of bed, his joints protesting, his chest constricted. He pulled on sweatpants, tugged a hoodie over his head, and laced up his sneakers with slow, deliberate movements. His wife glanced at him from the kitchen, surprise flickering across her face.

"Going somewhere?" she asked softly.

"Just outside," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. He couldn't explain. He didn't know how.

The morning air was a shock—cold, biting, a stark contrast to the warmth of the house. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, each step a battle against the weight in his limbs. His mind whispered cruel words, a relentless stream of doubt and despair.

This is pointless, it hissed. Walking won't fix you. You're just delaying the inevitable.

But his feet kept moving, carrying him past the familiar sights of his neighborhood. The world outside was quiet, almost serene, as if waiting for him to notice. He slowed his pace, lifting his face to the sky, and felt a strange sensation in his chest—a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He noticed the crunch of gravel under his shoes, the earthy scent of damp soil, the way sunlight danced on the leaves above. It wasn't joy. It wasn't relief. But it was... awareness. A tiny spark of presence.

By the time he turned back toward home, a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin. His chest still ached, but the weight felt slightly lighter, as if a tiny crack had appeared in the darkness that had been consuming him. He pulled the notebook toward him at the kitchen table, flipping past yesterday's harsh words.

My body felt like lead this morning. I almost didn't get out of bed. But I walked. Ten minutes, maybe less. At first, it felt like a chore, a punishment. Then I started to notice things—the sound of my footsteps, the way the sun filtered through the trees, the song of a bird. My body whispered a thank you. I don't know if it means anything yet. But for a few minutes, I was here. Truly here. And that's something.

He read the words back to himself, almost disbelieving. Could a simple walk make a difference? It seemed impossible. Yet, he couldn't deny the shift he'd felt, however small.

He closed the notebook as his daughter skipped into the kitchen, her voice filling the room with chatter. He looked at her—her bright eyes, her infectious smile—and felt a strange tug in his chest. It was faint, fragile, but real. A connection, however brief.

Day two was over. And he was still here. Still fighting. Still trying.

Day 3

The aroma of coffee permeated the kitchen before Ethan even took his seat. His wife always brewed a full pot, and today the scent was overpowering, bitter and rich, a taunting reminder of his usual routine. A mug sat steaming on the table, waiting for him.

His mouth watered, his head still throbbing from yesterday's haze. He reached for the cup, then hesitated. The notebook lay open beside it, yesterday's entry mocking him: For a few minutes, I was present. He didn't want to lose that feeling, that tiny spark of awareness.

He pulled his hand back, sliding the mug away, and filled a glass with water instead. The cold liquid jolted his system, a stark contrast to the comforting warmth of the coffee. His wife glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but she said nothing.

Breakfast was usually a rushed affair—whatever he could grab on his way out the door. Today, he took his time, cracking eggs into a pan with deliberate care. The sound of the shells breaking, the sizzle of the eggs in the skillet, felt almost surreal, like watching someone else's life unfold. He sat down and ate slowly, each bite a conscious choice.

At work, the hours ticked by with agonizing slowness. But by eleven, when he usually found himself fighting off waves of exhaustion, something unexpected happened. He didn't crash. He wasn't bursting with energy, but he wasn't drowning in a fog of fatigue either. He navigated a meeting without feeling like his brain was full of static, typed emails without the usual struggle to form coherent sentences.

By two o'clock, the craving hit. He stood in front of the vending machine, eyes locked on the glowing row of sodas. His hand hovered over the button, his body aching with the desire for the familiar rush of sugar. One can won't hurt, the thought whispered. One won't undo anything.

But then he remembered last night, sitting at the dinner table, actually listening to his kids chatter about their day. He hadn't been distracted, hadn't been drifting away. For once, he'd been present enough to hear them, to engage with them.

He pulled his hand back and walked away, clutching an apple instead of a soda. The crunch of the apple echoed in the empty break room, the juice a stark reminder of the choices he was making. It wasn't exciting, but it wasn't nothing.

That evening, he noticed another shift. Normally, by the time he came home, he was a shell of a man, brain fried, energy depleted. Tonight, he wasn't overflowing with vitality, but he wasn't completely drained either. His son waved a soccer ball in front of him, begging him to come outside. For a moment, Ethan almost refused out of habit. Then he realized he didn't have to. He had enough left in him to say yes.

Later, he sat down at the table with the notebook, the pen scratching across the page as he poured out his thoughts.

I usually rely on coffee, then more coffee, then soda, then beer. Today, I had water and eggs. By eleven, I didn't crash. By two, I wanted soda but ate an apple instead. I don't feel amazing, but I don't feel foggy either. When I got home, I wasn't completely gone. I listened to my kids. I even went outside with my son. Maybe food really can change something. Not everything. But today, it mattered.

He closed the notebook and stared at it, the weight of his words sinking in. He didn't know if tomorrow would bring any different, if today was just a fluke. But there was no denying the truth staring back at him in his own handwriting.

His choices mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, that thought felt dangerous in a good way. It felt like a challenge, a dare to keep pushing forward, to keep trying. It felt like a glimmer of hope in the darkness that had been consuming him.

Day 4

The headache struck before the first light of dawn. It was there, pounding behind his eyes like a relentless drumbeat, when Ethan opened them. His skull felt constricted, his stomach churned with unease. He groaned, pressing his palms into his temples, but the pressure didn't ease.

Caffeine withdrawal, he thought bitterly. Years of relying on coffee, soda, energy drinks, and now his body was rebelling. He lay back down, pulling the blanket over his face, considering skipping the day's experiment. Who would know? Seven days was his rule, and rules were meant to be broken.

But the notebook lay on the nightstand, its presence a silent accusation. He could almost hear the words inside, reminding him of the progress he'd made. Three days ago, he had written Empty. Tired. Useless. Yesterday, something different. If he quit now, that spark of presence would fade, and he'd be right back where he started.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His wife looked up from the counter, concern etched on her face. "Rough morning?" she asked softly.

"Headache," he muttered, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He didn't tell her about the experiment, the deadline he'd set for himself. Not yet.

The day at work was a blur of pain and frustration. His head throbbed with every flicker of the computer screen, every beep of the printer. He snapped at a coworker when she asked a simple question, then spent the rest of the hour hating himself for his outburst. His body ached for relief, for just one cup of coffee, one quick hit of soda. He stood in front of the break room machine twice, quarters heavy in his palm, but both times he walked away, jaw clenched, vision swimming.

By the time he pulled into the driveway that evening, he was exhausted. He wanted to collapse onto the couch, to disappear into the cushions until the world faded away. Instead, he walked straight into the bedroom.

The bed was a mess—blankets tangled, pillows strewn about, sheets twisted. The sight of it irritated him, a physical manifestation of the chaos inside his head. He yanked the sheets flat, pulled the blanket tight, and stacked the pillows neatly. It took less than two minutes, but when he stepped back, the room looked calmer, more contained. Less like the turmoil he felt within.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the neatly made bed, almost laughing at the absurdity. I'm proud of making a bed now? Is this what it's come to?

But still, it mattered. It was something he could control, a small victory in a day filled with battles.

Later, after the kids had gone to bed, he scrolled through his phone and found an old playlist from college days. He tapped on a song he hadn't heard in years. The opening chords filled the room, and at first, it was just noise. But as the chorus rose, a memory surfaced—windows rolled down on a summer night, friends shouting lyrics into the wind, his own laughter echoing through the car. He didn't laugh now, but he remembered laughing then. And for the first time in months, memory felt like hope.

That night, his journal entry poured out, raw and honest.

My head is pounding. The caffeine withdrawal is brutal. All day, I wanted to give in, but I didn't. Tonight, I made the bed. It felt silly, but when I walked back in, the room looked calmer, like I'd done something that mattered. Then I listened to a song I used to love. I didn't feel joy, but I remembered joy. And maybe remembering it is the first step to feeling it again.

He set the pen down, rubbing his eyes. The headache still lingered, a dull, nagging pain, but the words on the page held a faint glow of meaning.

He had survived another day.

And for now, that was enough. It had to be.

Day 5

The voice began its relentless assault before Ethan even stepped out of the house. It wasn't his wife's voice or his kids calling after him. It was the other one—the insidious whisper that lived in the dark corners of his mind.

You're worthless.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he drove to work, but the words clung to him like a second skin. You don't matter. You're a bad father. A bad husband. You've already failed them all.

At the office, he sat in front of his computer screen, emails blurring into a meaningless haze as the critic's voice grew louder. You can't keep this up. Everyone knows you're a fraud. They're waiting for you to crumble. By lunchtime, his chest was constricted, his stomach churned with acid, his hands restless and fidgety. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but instead, he forced a smile in the break room, laughed at a colleague's joke, and carried his shame back to his desk.

On the drive home, the voice dug in its claws, its grip tightening with each passing mile. Seven days? What a joke. You won't last. You'll never change. You don't deserve to.

He gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was so tired of this voice, so weary of its constant barrage. But how do you silence something that comes from within?

That night, sitting at the kitchen table with the notebook open, he decided to confront the voice head-on. Instead of letting it fester in the shadows of his mind, he would drag it into the light. He wrote the words exactly as they echoed in his head.

Thought: I am worthless.

Seeing it written made his chest constrict, as if a vice were tightening around his heart. He wanted to slam the notebook shut, to tear the page from its binding, but instead, he drew a line beneath the sentence and forced himself to continue.

Evidence for: I messed up a report at work last week. I barely talk to my wife anymore. I forget what my kids tell me. Evidence against: My boss thanked me last month for staying late. My daughter still climbs into my lap when she's scared. My wife kissed me goodbye this morning. My son asked me to watch him practice soccer.

His throat burned, his eyes stung with unshed tears. He hadn't expected to find evidence against the thought, not real, tangible evidence. But there it was, in his own handwriting, stark and undeniable.

He pushed back from the table and stood in front of the hallway mirror. His reflection stared back at him—pale skin, haunted eyes, lines etched deep by years of silent struggle. He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper.

"I am not worthless."

The critic sneered in his mind, its voice a harsh, mocking whisper. Yes, you are.

He tried again, louder this time, his voice trembling with effort. "I am not worthless." His reflection didn't change, but something in his chest stirred, a tiny ember of defiance.

The voice spat back, its tone dripping with contempt. You'll never believe that.

He clenched his fists, his whole body trembling, and shouted it this time, his voice echoing in the quiet house. "I am not worthless!"

Silence followed, a heavy, pregnant pause. The critic didn't vanish; it still lurked, waiting for an opportunity to strike. But for the first time in years, Ethan had spoken louder than it.

His hand shook as he picked up the pen again, the words pouring out onto the page.

The voice told me I'm worthless. I've believed it for so long, it's become a part of me. But tonight, I forced myself to argue with it. The truth is, the evidence against the thought is stronger than I wanted to admit. Saying 'I am not worthless' in the mirror felt stupid at first, but by the third time, it felt like a battle cry. Maybe the voice isn't as strong as it wants me to think. Maybe it's just loud.

He closed the notebook slowly, pressing his palm against the cover as if to seal the words inside. His heart was still racing, his face flushed with emotion, but beneath it all, there was a spark—a faint, flickering ember of resistance.

Not victory. Not freedom. But a start. A glimmer of hope in the darkness that had been consuming him.

And for the first time, he realized he didn't have to agree with the voice. He didn't have to let it define him.

And that was enough to carry him into tomorrow.

Day 6

Ethan stared at his phone as if it were a ticking time bomb, its silence deafening. It sat on the kitchen table beside his notebook, a dark, ominous presence. He could hear his kids in the living room, their voices rising and falling over a video game, his wife moving about upstairs. The house was alive, but he felt isolated, cut off by an invisible barrier that only he could see.

Reaching out was today's task. He knew it. He had written it down the night before. But the thought sent a wave of anxiety crashing through him, his chest tightening like a vice.

They don't want to hear from you, the critic whispered. You'll sound desperate. Pathetic. You'll be a burden. Better to stay quiet. Better to keep to yourself.

Isolation had become his refuge, his shield against judgment and rejection. But it had also become his prison, a lonely cell where he was trapped with his own thoughts. And loneliness was the heaviest weight of all.

He opened the notebook and reread the words from last night: Maybe the voice isn't as strong as it wants me to think. Maybe it's just loud.

What if that was true here, too? What if the critic was lying again?

He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over names that sparked a mix of dread and longing. Old friends he hadn't spoken to in years. Coworkers who only knew the surface version of him. Family who would ask too many questions.

Finally, he stopped on one name. An old friend, someone he hadn't seen much lately, but who had always been steady, uncomplicated. His thumb trembled as he typed two words: Thinking of you. His finger hovered over the delete button, almost convinced it was a ridiculous idea. But something within him pushed forward, and the message sent.

His heart pounded in his chest as he waited, expecting silence, expecting nothing. But the reply came less than a minute later: Good to hear from you. How are you?

Ethan stared at the screen, his eyes blurring with unexpected emotion. His throat constricted, a lump forming as he read the words again. He hadn't expected an answer, not like that. Not so simple, so human, so immediate.

Later, after dinner, he picked up the phone again. His father's number sat near the top of his contacts. He hadn't called in weeks, always finding excuses—exhaustion, busyness, silence. His thumb hesitated, then pressed the green button.

"Ethan," his father's voice answered after two rings, warm and steady.

"Hey, Dad." His own voice cracked, betraying the emotions he had been holding back.

They talked for five minutes, the conversation light and casual—the weather, the kids, his dad's latest project in the garage. Nothing deep. Nothing life-changing. But when he hung up, the silence in the house felt different. Not empty. Not suffocating. Just quiet.

He sat at the kitchen table, opened the notebook, and wrote, the pen scratching across the page as he poured out his thoughts.

I texted a friend today. They answered right away. I called my dad, and we talked about nothing, but it mattered. Maybe people do care. Maybe I've been the one pulling away. My safe people are there. I just need to remember to reach for them.

He read the words twice, then three times. His chest still ached, his loneliness still lingered, but the invisible barrier between him and the world had cracked.

It wasn't gone. But it was no longer unbreakable.

For the first time, Ethan wondered if connection wasn't just something other people had. Maybe, if he reached out again, it could still belong to him. Maybe, if he let go of his fear and his isolation, he could find a way back to the people who cared about him. Maybe, if he took that first step, he could find a way to break down the walls he had built around himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to heal.

Day 7

The house was shrouded in a quiet stillness when Ethan descended the stairs. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, thin stripes across the kitchen table where his notebook lay in wait. He poured a glass of water, sat down, and stared at the worn, familiar cover.

Seven days.

That was the pact he had made with himself. One week to find a reason to keep going. And now, the week was over.

He opened the notebook to the first page. The words leapt out at him, harsh and unyielding: Empty. Tired. Useless. He could vividly remember writing them, could recall the crushing weight in his chest as he had. He had believed those words with every fiber of his being. He still felt their weight, a heavy anchor dragging him down.

But the pages that followed told a different tale. He traced them with his finger, each entry a small victory, a tiny step forward: the day he forced himself to walk, the day he resisted the urge for caffeine, the day he made his bed, the day he shouted defiance into the mirror, the day he reached out to an old friend. Small things, perhaps insignificant to others, but to him, they were proof. Proof that he had moved, even when he thought he couldn't.

He turned to a blank page and wrote three words, not about how he felt, but about what truly mattered: Love. Growth. Courage.

He stared at them, letting the words sink deep into his consciousness. Love was the anchor that had kept him from drifting away entirely. His wife's unwavering patience, his kids' infectious laughter, even the simple warmth of his father's voice on the phone. He had been shutting himself away from all of it, convinced he was a poison, a burden. But maybe—just maybe—love was still a reason to keep fighting.

He pressed the pen harder against the paper, the words flowing from his heart.

Tomorrow, I will act on love. I’ll call my sister. Not to explain everything. Not to fix anything. Just to remind her that I care. Because love is real, even when I feel numb. Even when I feel like I have nothing left to give.

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of his decision settling over him. Then he wrote something else, the words trembling but resolute:

Hope Anchor: I am rebuilding, one step at a time. One day at a time. One choice at a time.

He sat back and closed his eyes, the notebook resting on the table before him. His chest still ached, the heaviness hadn't magically lifted. He was not "better." But when he thought about the man who had written those brutal words, he realized something had shifted. He wasn't only those things anymore. He was also the man who had walked, who had made a bed, who had fought back against the critic, who had reached out.

He flipped back to the very first page again, stared at those harsh words, and whispered into the quiet of the kitchen, "I'm still here."

It wasn't triumph. It wasn't joy. But it was enough. It was a start.

His daughter's footsteps padded down the stairs, her small voice calling for him. Ethan closed the notebook and slid it aside, his hand resting on the cover for just a moment longer. He had given himself seven days to decide. And sitting there in the morning light, surrounded by the sounds of his family beginning their day, he made his choice.

Not forever. Not even for the year.

Just for tomorrow.

And for now, tomorrow was enough. It had to be. It was all he had. And it was more than he had thought he would have, just seven days ago.

Ethan’s Seven Promises

Day 1 – Break the Silence

I will not let this thing stay hidden anymore. Today I will speak it, even if the words are ugly, even if they come out in a whisper. I will write them down so they can’t keep circling endlessly inside my head. Depression wants me silent. Today, I refuse.

Day 2 – Move the Body, Shift the Mind

I will put one foot in front of the other. Not to get anywhere, not to prove anything, but because movement means I’m still alive. Even if it’s only a few minutes, I will step outside and let the air remind me that I exist in this world.

Day 3 – Fuel for Hope

I will not numb myself with coffee, sugar, or beer today. I will give my body water and real food, even if I don’t care. I want to see if energy can feel different, if I can make it to the end of the day without collapsing completely.

Day 4 – Reignite Joy with Small Wins

I will do one small thing I can control — make my bed, clear a space, finish something simple. I will also touch a memory of joy, even if I can’t feel it yet — a song, a moment, something that reminds me who I was before this silence swallowed me.

Day 5 – Challenge the Inner Critic

I will not accept every thought as truth. When the voice tells me I am worthless, I will write it down and demand proof. I will force myself to argue back, even if it feels weak, even if it feels fake. I will speak a better truth out loud, just to prove the voice isn’t the only one living in me.

Day 6 – Connection Over Isolation

I will not spend this whole day alone in my head. I will reach out, even with the smallest gesture — a text, a phone call. I don’t need to pour everything out. I just need to remind myself that I am not cut off completely, that someone will answer when I speak.

Day 7 – Anchor in Purpose

I will write down what still matters to me. Love. Growth. Courage. I will choose one, and I will act on it tomorrow, however small. I will write a sentence to carry with me, a reminder that I am not finished yet. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just one more day. Tomorrow.