I was washing the dishes, you know, the quiet clinking of ceramic, the warm water a balm, when she said it. Just a little comment, barely a ripple in the dinner quiet, about how I didn't *contribute* financially, not really. And I felt it then, that familiar chill, a perfect little wave of anhedonia washing over me, every single day, every day – like someone had simply reached in and turned off the color in the room. The plates, still warm from dinner, felt heavy, like they were made of something dense, something that absorbs light, absorbs sound. And then... nothing. Just the water, the suds. The quiet.