By J. J. Whelan
He woke up to the sound of Neil Young and Del Amitri. The old CD player had somehow turned itself on again, maybe a glitch, maybe fate. The morning light was muted by thick grey smog that hung over his London flat, pressing down like the weight he carried every day.
The flat smelled of stale coffee and damp clothes. A half-written letter to his brother sat on the kitchen table, next to a collection of unopened mail and unpaid bills. He hadn’t left the flat properly in days. Maybe weeks. The days bled into nights, and the nights bled into the bottle.
Neil’s dulcet tones sang “only love can break your heart,” and for a second, he thought of her. The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his floor, mouthing every word to Del Amitri’s Nothing Ever Happens as if it were scripture.
But she was gone pushed away by his endless fear of getting close to someone. He was no monster. Just… broken. Tired. Sometimes too numb to care, sometimes caring too much to breathe.
He dragged himself out of bed, more out of habit than hope. Looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise the eyes staring back. They looked older than twenty-five. Hollowed out. Haunted.
He shuffled to the CD player to turn it off but paused. Del Amitri now. “And I hope I never figure out who broke your heart…”
Something in that line cut through. Not a lightning bolt. Not a revelation. But a sliver. A crack of something real. It reminded him he could still feel, even if it was hurt.
He didn’t cry. Not yet. But he sat. On the floor. Cross-legged like she used to. And he listened.
That morning wasn’t a miracle. He didn’t call for help. Didn’t shower. Didn’t throw away the bottles.
But he didn’t pick one up either.
Sometimes, depression doesn’t leave. It lingers like smoke. But in moments like that, with Neil Youngs voice trembling through a scratchy stereo, it loosens its grip. Just enough to let the light sneak in.
And for the first time in a long time, he listened all the way to the end of the song.
This was the wake up call he required to figure out what he was going to do with his life. After six years in London it was time for a logistical change. A return to Glasgow was calling, sell up and start again.
He returned to his old stomping ground and guess what, nothing had changed. Same culture of alcohol and drugs he left behind six years ago. He knew one thing he wouldn’t get caught in the rat race, but he seemed to forget that depression and mental health issues never leave you. They are always looking for a fix.
J. J. Whelan
Holywell Street 
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