He sat there for forty-seven minutes

He sat there for forty-seven minutes. His phone buzzed with messages from his boss. He didn't check them. His coffee went cold in the cup holder. The sun moved across the windshield. And Elias sat in his gray sedan in a gray parking lot under a gray sky, and for the first time in over a decade, he cried. Not the kind of crying you do at movies or funerals. The kind that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness. The kind that comes from the part of you that knows you're dying before your body does. When the tears finally stopped, Elias didn't feel better. But he felt something. And that something, even though it hurt, even though it was raw and ugly and uncomfortable, was better than nothing. Because nothing had been killing him. Nothing had been erasing him. Nothing had been stealing his years one silent Tuesday at a time. He called his boss and said he wasn't coming in. He drove home, not because he wanted to, but because he didn't know where else to go. And that night, alone in his apartment with the curtains drawn, Elias made a decision that would either save his life or destroy what was left of it. He decided to stop surviving and start living. The only problem was, he had no idea what that meant anymore. Let me ask you something. And I want you to be honest. Not with me. With yourself. When did you stop wanting things?