Nobody talked about the build-up. They talked about the moment things finally broke — the argument, the tears, the resignation letter, the door that closed too hard. But the build-up was invisible, and it had been happening for a long time. For Sofia, it started with small compromises. Staying an hour later when she'd planned to leave. Saying yes when she meant something closer to "under these specific conditions." Absorbing feedback without the space to respond to it. Each one alone was manageable. Together, they were a structure — invisible, load-bearing, under increasing strain. The day it became too much was not remarkable in any way. A Tuesday. A minor misunderstanding. An email that used the wrong tone. She walked out of the building and stood in the car park and felt the full weight of everything that had been building up.

For the first two weeks after the diagnosis, everything felt tight. Not just emotionally — physically. James carried tension in his shoulders, his jaw, the muscles along his spine that he hadn't known existed until they refused to release. Pressure had been building up in ways he couldn't name and couldn't quite locate. He didn't expect it to ease off. He had prepared, in his methodical way, for the long arc of difficulty. But one afternoon, he fell asleep in a chair in the hospital garden — just for twenty minutes — and when he woke up, something was different. The tightness hadn't disappeared. But it had shifted. Eased, slightly, the way a too-tight knot does when you stop pulling at it and simply let it rest. He sat in the garden for a long time after that. The pressure had eased off, just enough — and for today, just enough was enough.