Maybe This is What Happens Next
by Steph
Summary: So what happens to him after his goodbye party? Here are five possibilities.
Yep. Another Toby fic from me. I just find his character fascinating for some reason.
Two small notes. In Part 4, I mentioned reviews of the documentary. I don't agree with the reviews, but think that kind of reaction might be a possibility and it was a necessary part to the story. Also Part 5 has a few words in Spanish. I got the translation from a website and if any of the words are incorrect, I apologize.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Maybe what happens next is he doesn’t leave the country (or, for that matter, the county)
Toby hadn’t meant to say anything that night. Sure, he had been sending out his resume and going on interviews, but the possible jobs were all in greater Lackawanna County and remarkably similar to what he was doing now. Nothing was definite and it seemed ridiculous to brag about something that no one would envy.
He blurted out Costa Rica, because he needed to say something. He blurted out Costa Rica to get away from the stunned silence that followed him placing his hand on a coworker’s knee, acting inappropriate once again. He blurted out Costa Rica, because it was something he had always dreamed about for his retirement. He blurted out Costa Rica because he knew, right then, he couldn’t work at this horrible, horrible company any longer.
He blurted out Costa Rica because it made him into a man with a plan, a man following his dream, rather than someone floundering at work and at life, bullied and excluded and nearly undone by a simple, unrequited crush on someone he never stood a chance with.
A few days later, he was offered a job at the corporate headquarters of an educational supply company not too far from Dunder Mifflin and he felt only relief as he handed in his resignation.
He was losing his mind here and he needed to get out.
When people asked him, in the break room or at the bar or in front of the camera for the stupid documentary, about his upcoming trip to Costa Rica, he didn’t know how to say that he lied (because people thought he was pathetic enough already) so instead he made it worse by telling them about condos on the beach, about surfing lessons and zip lines and he would get so excited in describing the places and things he had yearned for for so long, that there would always be that second where he’d forget, where he’d actually think that he was in fact Costa Rica-bound, before he remembered it was all a ruse to save some kind of face with people who really didn’t care one way or another where he was going. That moment when reality hit, when he remembered that people like him didn’t just impulsively move to another country, left him feeling almost physically ill with disappointment and longing.
Instead of a Costa Rican beach, he sat in a cubicle and led presentations on health plans and internet usage. He wore the same suits and drove the same car and lived in the same apartment and saw his daughter for the same meager amount of time (weekends, every other major holiday) and he was still basically the same person and it sucked because it was nothing like what his life would have been if he had actually been able to leave.
He did change some of his routines, mostly to avoid his former coworkers. He went to a different branch of his bank, rather than his usual one where he had occasionally run into Angela; if he ever needed a drink or two, he would go anywhere but Poor Richard’s.
He went to the post office one day and saw a woman that he was almost positive was Phyllis. As he imagined what she would say to him (“Shouldn’t you be somewhere that isn’t five minutes from Dunder Mifflin?), he felt his breathing quicken and his heart start to pound. It was only after the woman turned around and he saw it definitely wasn’t her that his heart rate returned to normal and he was able to breathe again.
He was being silly. The world was not going to end if he ran into someone from work.
He knew that. But that didn’t stop him from sitting on the couch in his apartment and staring at the wall, trying to remember why he had said he was going to Costa Rica in the first place when he wasn’t even planning to leave city limits.
Why had he let this stupid fib of his get so out of hand? What was wrong with him?
Lots of things. Hadn’t this last year taught him that there were lots of things wrong with him?
He walked to his refrigerator, where amidst the expired pizza delivery coupons and assorted photos of Sasha was his faded, wrinkled picture of a Costa Rica beach, the one he had lied about.
The picture was mocking him and his pitiful life.
He took the picture off the fridge and shoved it into a cluttered drawer.
Maybe he’d be able to look at it in the future. Right now it just hurt too much.
--
Maybe what happens next is that he does go away (but comes right back to everything he had hoped to leave)
He did go to Costa Rica and for a few weeks enjoyed the warm weather and the picturesque scenery. He ran and he swam and he surfed and was able to pretend that this was exactly what he had wanted.
But it wasn’t. He was in the right place at the wrong time. He had an eight-year-old daughter who was going through third grade and had ballet and soccer practice and book reports and slumber parties and though his ex had promised she would keep him updated with emails and photos it wouldn’t be the same. If he stayed in Costa Rica he would be the worst father around.
Once he had that fun little epiphany (and realized that his guilt was the reason for those stomach pains that had been troubling him the last few days), he flew back.
He found a crappy apartment that overlooked a seedy looking bar, which was almost as nice as a condo overlooking the ocean, but not quite.
Worse than the apartment situation was the job situation. The job market, he discovered, sucked and his computer skills weren’t exactly anything to be proud of so there were a few weeks where he worried that he’d have to start bussing tables or washing cars to survive.
He decided to get good and buzzed one night as he went through the online job listings. He laughed to himself as he read one familiar posting. His old job, it appeared, was once again up for grabs.
Huh, he thought. He wondered what had happened to Holly.
Still slightly buzzed, he emailed his resume and cover letter, Attn: Kendall Smith. Just as a joke.
Kendall called him the next morning asking if he was serious, because if he was then it would be great because it would save the company in training costs and it would save a lot of energy trying to explain some of the “quirks” of the Scranton branch.
“I was joking,” Toby wanted to protest, but he couldn’t, because he wasn’t buzzed anymore and it wasn’t like he was drowning in job offers and his Costa Rica trip, which had been less a life change and more an extended vacation, hadn’t been cheap and if he stayed unemployed for much longer he’d be joining Creed at the local soup kitchen and basically, what it came down to, was he was just too tired to look for anything else.
It appeared, once again, that the joke was on Toby.
He really had no one to blame but himself for saying yes to Kendall, for walking into his old office, shoulders already slumped, eyes already down on the floor, already apologetic for just existing.
The first person he saw was Pam of course and he didn’t know what was more painful really, the engagement ring on her finger or the look of pure, naked pity in her eyes when she greeted him.
No, he did know. The pity. Definitely the pity.
He mumbled something that was both a greeting and an apology for last year and headed back to the annex, a place he had thought, had hoped, he’d never return.
Being back was even more difficult than he had imagined. Pam wasn’t the only one who pitied him and conversations seemed to stop when he entered a room. Too bright smiles were plastered onto faces in a way that turned his stomach. Toby couldn’t even look at Jim; he was still too horrified by his actions last year toward his former friend.
Which was fine, because Jim didn’t seem too eager to talk to Toby either.
And then there was Michael. Michael now seemed to hate him even more and was even more vicious in his attacks (how was that possible?), blaming him for Holly’s departure, even though Holly had given notice weeks before Toby had seen the job posting and Kendall had confided that Holly left due to some family emergency.
The only person who seemed to treat him the same was Kelly. Kelly, who was so cheerfully self-absorbed and just a little bit shallow, seemed to pick up right where they left off and within minutes of his return was launching into some story about this horrible bitch at the mall who told Kelly she should buy the skirt she liked in a bigger size even though the one she wanted fit perfectly. Stupid slut, Kelly said.
Yes, Toby agreed and turned on his computer.
In the next few weeks, Toby came up with a strategy to survive. He stayed in the annex as much as possible, focusing on computer work and files rather than his coworkers and didn’t attend parties or meetings or go to the bar with them at night. When he was required to give a presentation, he did it as quickly as possible, trying his best to ignore the insults from Michael and avoid any more human interaction than was absolutely necessary. Then he escaped back to the relative safety of the annex.
Something funny happened. He had once been annoyed by Kelly’s chatter, but now he had begun to appreciate it. If it was too quiet, he was left to wonder why he had come back to this place of his own free will. He began to depend on her chatter, which may have been the only thing keeping him from crying or throwing his computer at Michael’s head.
He wanted to show her how much he appreciated her but didn’t exactly know how to say it so instead he asked her questions to keep her talking. He asked her about celebrities and complimented her clothes and gave her advice about Darryl and even watched Project Runway one night because it was one of her favorite shows (and he didn’t think he could manage her other favorite show - The Hills).
The next day the two of them were working on expense reports and she couldn’t figure out some totals so he cleared his throat and, as a way of showing his gratitude, said, “Make it work.”
It was a horrible impression (he wasn’t blessed with that talent like Jim was), but Kelly looked up at him, eyes shining, and clapped her hands and told him to do it again. It reminded him of the way Sasha used to react when he played peekaboo with her when she was younger so he happily obliged.
Kelly, he noticed over the next few days, always saved him a seat when there was a meeting he had to attend and always brought him back food when there was a party. She seemed to pick up on days when he was especially down or needy and tried her hardest to cheer him up. She seemed almost protective of him.
He felt ashamed for thinking she was self-absorbed, because Kelly, he was surprised to realize, had somehow become his best friend. Which was scary, but nice, because really, he needed all the friends he could get.
One day he ventured out of the annex to the break room to heat up some leftovers. Michael stood there talking to Jim and when he noticed Toby, he sneered, “Hey Loser.”
Toby didn’t say anything (no point, really) and shuffled over to the refrigerator and found his lunch. By the time he had opened his container, Michael was standing in front of the microwave, blocking it.
“Oh. Sorry,” Michael said. “Microwaves aren’t for quitters. You can’t use it.”
“But I...I have spaghetti,” Toby protested weakly, hating the submission in his voice.
“That’s too bad. Hey, Jim,” Michael said. “You know who was good at microwaving things? Holly.”
Toby looked to Jim briefly, who averted his eyes. Finally after a long awkward silence, Jim said, “Come on, Michael. Let him nuke his lunch.”
Toby, a little hurt by Jim’s delayed response, but understanding it just the same, didn’t wait to hear Michael’s answer, only slunk back to the annex and ate his cold spaghetti. Only another twenty years before he could retire, he thought.
He reminded himself that no one had put a gun to his head forcing him to come back here. That only made him feel worse.
When he received an email from Darryl a few days later with the subject line HR EMERGENCY: READ ASAP, he sighed to himself. But the email was short and to the point.
We have a microwave in the warehouse. It is fully-functioning, unlike some people I know.
Toby stuck his head over the cubicle. Kelly was on the phone helping a client. When she looked up, he mouthed, “Thank you.” She grinned at him.
Feeling shy at first, he went down just to use the microwave, but Darryl told him to stay and eat with them. And it was sort of uncomfortable at first, because Toby wasn’t the most outgoing person to begin with and some of the warehouse people were intimidating, but Darryl insisted and everyone just kind of followed his lead.
So he stayed and listened to stories and jokes and smiled as everyone loudly talked over each other. He smiled, letting the commotion and noise surround him.
He needed the noise. Noise kept him sane. Noise kept him from asking himself the tough questions (“Why did I come back here?” “Why do I do this to myself?” “Why did I think things would get any better?” “How will I survive another twenty years of this?”) that would only drive him insane.
After Darryl told him he was welcome down in the warehouse any time, for lunch or games or just to get away from Michael, yelling so he could be heard over Lonny and Madge’s argument, Toby thanked him profusely and headed back.
He walked slowly upstairs, head bowed. Then he suddenly straightened, a half-smile forming on his face. He hoped Kelly was still at her desk. He had a new impression to try out.
--
Maybe what happens next is that he stays and things work out (and he actually finds happiness)
The first few days in Costa Rica were a bit of an adjustment. He had to get used to waking up whenever he wanted to, going to bed whenever he wanted to, wearing shorts or trunks and sandals everywhere. He had to get used to warm weather and sand beneath his toes and, most importantly, feeling lighter than he had in years.
He called his daughter every night, telling her how much he loved her, how much he missed her, talking to her until she was ready to sleep. And even then it was hard to tell her goodnight. God, he missed her. He wanted to pull her out of the phone and hug her. He wanted her to live with him. He pored over guidebooks from the tourism office, searching for fun adventures for them to have when she came to visit. And she would be coming to visit because he was staying.
He was definitely staying. In Costa Rica, he was relaxed. He felt human again. He felt happy.
He met Claudia at the bank. He was doing some freelance proofreading for a friend of a friend’s company and with the extra money wanted to start up a travel fund for Sasha.
Claudia stood behind him and tapped his shoulder to ask if he knew what time it was.
He looked at his watch (Thank you, Michael!), told her and instead of feeling self-conscious and turning away or blushing and stammering he smiled (smiled!) and made a not-too-lame joke about the length of the line.
Already Costa Rica was changing him for the better.
She laughed, a warm, friendly laugh and she was beautiful in a way that didn’t make him think of his ex or of Pam. While they waited in the excruciatingly long line, he learned that she was born in Costa Rica, was a baker and knew all the best bars and restaurants around here, should he be interested.
He told her he was fairly new here, used to work in Human Resources, loved all baked goods and pastries and was very interested in learning the hot spots. She laughed again and wrote the address of her bakery on a deposit slip. Then she wrote down a phone number.
“The bakery’s,” he said.
Claudia shook her head. “Mine.”
So that’s how it started. He’d visit the bakery and order a pastry and some coffee and read. He’d look up and find her watching him, smiling. Sometimes he’d visit when it was her break time and they’d take walks together.
On their walks, he learned more about her. She was thirty-two and had lived in California for several years as a teenager. “Near San Diego,” she told him. “I’m always near the beach.” She was engaged once to a man who wasn’t very nice to her, but had been smart enough to get out of it in time. She hadn’t really dated anyone since.
He told her details about his life slowly, not wanting to scare her away. On their walks, he told her about Sasha and how much he missed her. As the walks turned into dates, he told her a little about the divorce sparing her the grisly details.
He glossed over the trauma that was working at Dunder Mifflin. He told her only a little bit about Michael, just that there was someone there who really disliked him. He also mentioned a little crush he had on a coworker, feelings that were not returned.
He waited for her to leave after each admission, but she didn’t. His final admission, told because he thought she had the right to know, was that he was prone to the occasional bout of depression. This was told while she was in his bed, making it a particularly unusual post-coital topic of discussion. Once again, he waited for her to leave.
She didn’t. Instead she told him of some of her own unhappy experiences, some way in the past, some more recent. Experiences that had hurt her and changed her. Then she kissed him and told him although she hated hearing about the sadness and pain in his life, she was glad it had led him here. She said she hoped that he was happy here with her, because she was happy with him.
He was happy. Happy in a way he didn’t think he’d ever be again. Here was this woman who was caring and kind, beautiful and warm and he was in love and she felt the same way.
They decided to get married a few months after that. After a long discussion with his ex about Sasha’s attendance, they came to an agreement. His ex and her friend would fly up with Sasha to Costa Rica. His ex and her friend would stay at a hotel (close by, but not too close) and sightsee for a few days while Sasha stayed with him and attended the wedding.
“Consider it your wedding present,” his ex told him.
The day before the wedding Toby and Sasha walked on the beach together. She looked older, taller and skinnier. She was starting to look more like him. He told her again that he loved her, he would always be her father and if she ever needed him, he would be there for her in a second.
His eyes were blinking back tears, just a bit, but when she looked at him, she only said, “I know.” She let him hold her hand even though she was too old for it.
A few days after the casual ceremony he sent a mass email to his former coworkers with the news and attached two pictures. One of him and Claudia, smiling at each other on the beach; the other of Sasha, twirling around in her pale blue sundress, flowers pinned to her blonde hair.
He received congratulations from Phyllis, Oscar, Stanley and Meredith. The congratulatory email from Kelly was long and full of OMGs and smiley faces and various colored and sized fonts and he saved it to read later. Pam sent him a friendly email, telling him how happy she was for him. Jim emailed that he’d take Toby out for a beer the next time he was in the area. Toby reread those last two emails, thinking how fortunate he was that people were so forgiving. Kevin’s email asked what a hottie like Claudia was doing with Toby. Toby didn’t write back, because he wasn’t entirely sure of the answer himself. He got an email from Michael too, but Claudia told him to delete it without even reading it.
She was a smart one, this new wife of his.
Toby emailed Jim back saying he would love to get together for that beer. He and Claudia were planning a trip to Scranton next month for Sasha’s birthday.
He was looking forward to it.
--
Maybe what happens next is he goes away and comes back to something different (and finds something he never would have expected)
Costa Rica. What else could you say about it? Beautiful, relaxing and just not what he needed. He was antsy and too far from his daughter and one day, while on the beach, he searched for jobs in the Scranton area. He knew he’d be going back, he just didn’t know to what.
He spent the day polishing up his resume and cover letter. He even emailed Kendall, asking for a reference. Kendall emailed him the next day, attaching a generic, insert-name-here reference letter (“Toby Flenderson is a conscientious worker and would be an asset to any company”) and asking if he was interested in coming back to the company.
Toby reread the question and felt himself sweating at the thought of going back to that office and having to deal with Michael and everything again. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. In his email, he explained as politely as he could that he and Michael Scott had had some personality conflicts and that he’d rather not return to that office. Kendall replied no, Holly Flax was still in Scranton and doing a wonderful job, but they were looking for another HR person in one of the New York offices. They were looking to expand personnel in Utica perhaps, Karen Filipelli’s office. They hadn’t advertised the job opening yet, but if Toby was interested in New York...
It was an interesting proposition. Mapquest told him that Utica was three hours from Scranton. He could still spend weekends with his daughter. And Karen had always seemed pretty reasonable. Toby told Kendall yes and started making arrangements.
Karen was very businesslike and direct with him. They went to lunch the day before he officially started and over sandwiches she said, “I just wanted to warn you that this office is very different from Scranton. We don’t have parties every other day, I don’t have strippers come in and I don’t take my employees to the mall for a field trip. There are no beach days. No cameras. We don’t play pranks on each other. We just work and try to meet or, even better, exceed our goals.”
So far that sounded great to him.
“Also,” Karen said, signaling for the bill. “I will never blame you for things that are not your fault, I will never exclude you from any office event and I will never, ever bring up your personal life just to humiliate you.”
“That sounds perfect,” he said.
She smiled, extended her hand for him to shake. “Welcome to Utica.”
Utica was nothing like Scranton. It was quiet and well-run and normal. It was a refreshing change.
He had been there for a few weeks when Karen sat down next to him, a print out in her hand. “This,” she said, her lips curling into a smile as she was shaking her head, “is an email from your buddy Michael. I guess he found out you were working here and it’s basically a warning that I should fear for my life because of how evil you are.”
He sighed. “Great.”
“If only I had known about this before you came. I might have had second thoughts. I mean wow, the things you’re being accused of,” she said. “Want to read it?”
“No,” he said. “Just... just trash it please.”
“Sure,” she said. Then she laughed. “He’s just fixated. I swear if I didn’t know better I’d think Michael was half in love with you.”
Toby winced. “That’s really not funny.”
“Who said I was joking?”
Although most of time Karen was busy in her office, occasionally she’d sit with him and reminisce. She didn’t ask about Jim or Pam and he didn’t offer anything (he didn’t mention his recent embarrassing crush which he was trying his hardest to forget) and she didn’t bring up Michael. Instead they discussed Dwight, Angela, Kelly and Darryl, Ryan in prison (“That’s what they get for hiring him instead of me,” Karen said) and Andy, who outlasted all the Stamford people.
“He was a trip,” Karen said. “With the singing and the sucking up and the awful nicknames. I mean he called me Big Coleslaw for like a week. Who does that?”
Toby laughed. “I didn’t have any food-related nicknames. But once I helped him with some insurance question and he called me Flender-Bender. I was really glad that didn’t stick.”
“God,” she said. “Thank goodness we got out of there.”
“The nicknames weren’t that bad.”
She laughed and then lowered her voice. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
He was touched. No one ever said anything like that to him in Scranton. It took him a second to respond, saying he was glad he was here too.
And he meant it. He liked the quiet professionalism of the office, And he really liked talking to her.
His ex was the one who told him the big news a few months later. He was dropping off Sasha after a fun, yet too short, weekend together (in the summer, when school was out, she’d stay with him in New York) and his ex told him to wait.
His ex knew someone who knew someone and had heard the documentary would be airing soon. She had raised her eyebrows at him and asked, “Anything I should know?”
He looked away, thinking of people watching him being treated like crap by Michael, watching him acting like a moron around Pam. When he finally looked back at his ex, his voice was pleading. “Don’t let Sasha see it. Please. I just... I can’t...”
She nodded. “You have my word on that, Toby.”
He tried not to panic as the air date approached. Karen seemed a little stressed about it as well and they were both relieved when a month after the show first aired, it was cancelled due to lack of interest. It was cancelled before Toby did anything embarrassing, cancelled way before anyone in Stamford made an appearance.
“I have to show you something,” Karen said. “Meet me for drinks later?”
He agreed and over drinks she pulled out some reviews of the documentary, the “failed experiment.”
Together they read the reviews that commented on the shoddy production values, the odd sound issues and the not too entertaining subjects. One reviewer questioned Michael being real and not an actor, because surely someone that socially stunted and that lacking in common sense would never be able to manage a company. Karen highlighted all the negative comments about Michael and handed them to Toby, instructing him to frame them.
“I love this one,” Karen said and read aloud a reviewer’s comment about the dull non-romance between the incredibly boring, passive Pam and Jim. “It’s going in my scrapbook.”
It was the first time she had really mentioned Jim and Toby watched her, wondering if she was planning on saying more. She snorted, misinterpreting his concerned expression. “I was kidding. I don’t scrapbook.”
“I’m so glad it ended when it did,” he said. “Before other things started happening.” He did not elaborate.
“Me too,” Karen said. “I wasn’t in it at all!”
Neither of them said anything after that, drinking in companionable silence. He was starting to notice things, how appealing her slightly crooked smile was, the way the hair was coming somewhat undone from its updo. She was watching him too, deep in thought. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.
“So you’re an HR person,” she finally said. She placed her hand on top of his. “Tell me something. Is it considered sexual harassment if I told you I kind of wanted to kiss you?”
He considered this. Maybe it was. He didn’t feel harassed though. He felt flattered, interested. “Well,” he said slowly. “We’re not at work.”
“Right,” she said. “We’re here and we’re celebrating.”
And even though he was still HR through and through and was already thinking ahead to Monday morning and forms and rules and other potential issues, he kissed her by her car.
Kissing her almost made sense in a weird, wonderful, roundabout way and he was doing okay in New York far enough away from a bad situation, but close enough to see his daughter on weekends and the documentary had ended before it had become too humiliating.
Things were, at that moment, not bad at all.
She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling up a bit, and he pulled her just a little closer, and she kissed him again, murmuring something about celebrating some more.
That was fine with him.
He was suddenly in a very celebratory mood.
--
Maybe what happens next is that Costa Rica is what he thought it would be (but it still isn’t enough)
Costa Rica was very blue. The sky, the ocean, the carpet in his condo. He had read once that blue was a calming color. Funny. He didn’t feel calm. Not really.
He thought he would take one step onto foreign soil and be cured instantly. He thought a surfboard and some sunshine would magically solve all his problems.
Not so much.
What happened was he felt so incredibly tired. All those years dealing with a job he hated, a manager who despised him for no reason at all, a painful divorce, a custody battle that he was destined to lose, issues with his sister, and finally, a crush on a beautiful young woman who had the good sense not to return his feelings had just exhausted him both physically and mentally.
He slept a lot in Costa Rica. Too much. Didn’t do much surfing or sightseeing. Didn’t even do much eating. Just slept.
When he was able to rouse himself from slumber, he walked along the beach, barefoot on the hot sand. He was all alone. He would always be all alone. Everyone thought he was pathetic or creepy or some combination of the two. He had done so many bizarre things over the last year. He remembered things he had said and things he had done in front of poor Pam and cringed, wondering what had possessed him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have left the country, but at the time he had felt desperate, felt it was the only thing that could get him right again.
It didn’t seem to be working.
He went back to his condo. The sun was hurting his eyes.
Maybe he should do some banking. Put what was left of his savings and everything else into a fund in Sasha’s name.
He should write letters. He had them half-written in his head already: a long one to his ex, apologizing. An even longer one to Sasha, also apologizing. His ex could decide when Sasha would be ready to read it.
Sasha would be okay without him, he knew. His ex was a great mother and her husband, although one of Toby’s least favorite people, was a decent stepfather to his daughter. He could have been worse.
What Toby should have done next was recognize this as a particularly severe (and long lasting) episode of depression, something he had suffered from off-and-on for years. He should have immediately searched for a terapeuta to prescribe him some antidepresivos. Instead he walked to the farmacia and bought some somníferos.
The sleeping pills were small and blue, the same calming color as the ocean. He wondered how many he’d have to take to get the job done. To end it all. He closed the bottle, deciding not to take any right now.
He might take the pills later tonight, after the banking and letter-writing was done.
Or maybe he would find a terapeuta tomorrow and get the help he needed and not take them at all.
He still wasn’t sure.
His eyes felt heavy. No. That wasn’t right. His whole body felt heavy and he stumbled back to bed, pulling the blue blankets up to his chin. He closed his eyes.
He wondered if they made the antidepresivos blue too. Blue being such a calming color and all.
Not that it would matter that much what color they were, he thought to himself right before he turned over on his side and fell right asleep.
They probably wouldn't help him anyway.
The end
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