Valerian was perpetually a prisoner of ambition. His heart ached with an insatiable longing for validation, vindication, visibility. Thus, like a wayfarer pursuing the elusive glow of a lighthouse, he chased recognition, seldom questioning the cost.

Finally, at long last, the chase ceased.

A golden trophy rested before him, its shimmer a testament to his arduous, sleepless toil. His gaze meandered over the pristine expanse of his desk, betraying no chaos save for a lone, crumpled doctor’s note — an incongruous blemish that compelled him to wrench his eyes back to the accolade.

For a heartbeat, Valerian felt deserving… He had done it.

However, before the emotion could settle, silence ensued. It crept in surreptitiously, akin to the chill of winter’s breath as it gripped him with an iron hold, seeping into his very bones. The once-revered award morphed into a trinket for a child. Truly, he believed he might have caught himself in an endless circle — a serpent devouring its own tail.

From the dark corners of his mind, a voice slithered through, its somber, haunting tones tainted by an acerbic sting.

“Such efforts are but trifles,” it sneered.

“No, no, you’re wrong,” Valerian gasped, his voice taut with desperation. His fingers, like talons, clawed at his temples, nails piercing into flesh as he vehemently shook his head. “You know nothing of me!”

Nonetheless, the voice only swelled in his psyche, clinging to him like an impish parasite as it hissed with venomous disdain.

Sweat beaded on the man’s brow while his hands twitched, hovering over the bottle on his desk. Diminutive, unassuming, it beckoned him — a simple prescription, its label a blur yet unmistakable. Antidepressants. What the doctor named it held little sway; to Valerian, it was a far more exquisite thing: emancipation.

“Oh, poor Valerian,” the voice crooned, its lilt insidiously soft. “You are lost, you are weary, so come, be alone. Release yourself now; let peace be your home…”

Consequently, as his uncontrollably shaking fingers fumbled for the bottle, nearly knocking it off the desk, he yanked the cork free. His heart convulsed within its bony cage, his throat dried, and a sudden, searing memory surfaced. He recalled a boy, once so full of joy, dashing home from school with his first gold star in hand. “Look, Mamma! I did it!” he cried. But she never turned. Not even the slightest bit. Not even at all.

Resonating with the spirit of his bygone youth, Valerian knew — he knew — he would bleed the stars from his veins before they ever saw him shine. For here he stood, poised on the final threshold.

His breath hitched as the capsules captured his gaze, held it hostage, and rendered him powerless. Despite every fiber of his being railing against it, scalding tears obscured his sight as the victorious voice urged him on. With a final, defeated tremor, he raised the vessel to his lips, tilted it, and one by one, the pills tumbled.

In that moment, as all light and dreams extinguished, a soul-crushing question breathed:

“Can you hear me now?”