True story
Josh, a shy young man in his mid-twenties with bipolar disorder and agoraphobia, had recently been pushed by his mother to stay in a hotel. It was a loving, albeit drastic, effort from his mother, Eleanor, in hopes of exposing Josh to new faces and experiences that may somehow jolt him from the dreary loneliness of his mental state. It was hard to coax Josh outside the safety of their house, but for his mother, he had obliged.
Nestled in the middle of the city, The Thistlewood Inn was the venue of Eleanor's intervention. Upon his arrival, Josh was visibly apprehensive but held onto the prospect of getting through the experience unscathed.
Days went by slowly for Josh, as the jovial bustle of the inn made his social anxieties rise to new levels. He managed to retreat into himself further until a curious conversation sparked between him and Henry, the hotel maintenance man.
One day, as he observed Josh silently observing the world beyond the hotel window, Henry started a conversation. You're the that fix the washer on the second floor that’s good work for solitude, eh, young man? His gruff, sympathetic voice did not incite panic but was oddly comforting. Josh hesitantly shared his aspirations about writing stories.
In return, Henry confided about his youthful years, about having grand aspirations too, dreams of authoring worlds on paper. Yet, the hustle of life swallowed those ambitions, but the light never completely went out. Encouraged by their mutual passion, they spent many afternoons sharing stories and narratives. For the first time in a while, Josh felt understood and less lonely.
Their last conversation dwelt upon the tragedy of stories left unwritten. To that, Josh solemnly remarked, Aren't some stories better left untold? The enigmatic reply echoed long after their chat, playing repeatedly in Henry's mind, especially when he came to know of Josh's demise the next day.
His immediate reaction was of regret and self-blame, a dreadful could-I-have-done-something guilt. But, after much introspection, he understood that Josh's battle with his inner demons was beyond anyone else's comprehension. Even with Eleanor's affection and his late-blossoming friendship with Josh, they were spectators in a war they knew too little about.
In memory of the aspiring writer who shared a dream with him, Henry planned on writing a novel. Titled Between the Lines, it chronicled the highs and lows of their brief friendship. It will pay tribute to the story Josh would have written if the weight of his conditions hadn't overpowered his spirit.
Through the cathartic process, Henry became a silent voice for the countless souls battling unseen mental wars. As for Eleanor, the book will be serving as a reminder of her son's hopes, his unfulfilled dreams, and his delicate life lived within the confines of a mind besieged by invisible shackles.
R. I. P.
Josh