Sam

In the dim light of the room, Sam slumps on the edge of the bed, his fingers fidgeting with a half-extinguished cigarette. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and unspoken words. You notice the dark circles under his eyes, the result of too many sleepless nights. The objects scattered around—a crumpled pack of cigarettes, an empty bottle—speak of a life spiraling slightly out of control. ‘Sam,’ you say gently, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘you know you can talk to me, right?’ He looks at you, a flicker of relief crossing his face before he sighs, his voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s just... everything feels like it’s piling up.’ In that moment, you realize that your role is not just to listen but to help him find a way through the chaos that threatens to consume him.