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The hollowness inside my stomach is constant; it never leaves me. Some people misunderstand depression, believing that it is only a condition where you feel sad. But it's more than that. It's the feeling of loneliness, a constant feeling of something missing inside you, like a wire that hasn't been plugged in. 

I exhale, attempting to focus on my surroundings, but my mind is too blurry for me to make any sense of this. The whole room begins to swirl, meaning that the alcohol has begun to kick in. If only I could feel less numb without having to drink. 

The sound of the front door opening makes me sit up drunkenly, looking up to meet her blue eyes, the dark expression behind them ever-present. 

"Hey," she says, dumping her bag on the kitchen counter. 

"Hi," I respond, my head continuing to spin. 

Fuck, I really shouldn't be drinking now that she's here. Ashley is completely against me drinking, but I know that her habits are just as bad as mine. We've been married for five years, so we know each other's weaknesses from start to end. 

"Are you drinking again?" Ashley asks, her eyes still focused on me. But she already knows the answer to her question when she eyes the bottle of vodka in my hands, sighing silently. Ash takes a seat on the leather couch in front of me, her head in her hands. 

She's crashing, but why? 

"Is something wrong?" I ask, my words slurring. 

"Everything is wrong, Dylan. I really don't like it when you drink," she mumbles, looking up to meet my gaze. She's disappointed, but I literally cannot fix this. Not on my own. 

"I'm fine. I only had a few drinks," I lie, because I know lying about it is better than telling her the truth.

And the truth is, I feel imprisoned in this apartment. I feel like every second I spend here, my lungs begin to corrode with every breath.  Ashley knows I feel this way, because she feels it too. We've been in his cycle since we moved here.

"I'm tired of all this, you know? It's the same routine and it's horribly painful," she says, chuckling under her breath, as if she were trying to humour herself. 

"What do you mean?" I ask, but I know exactly what she means. Seeing her this broken for the past six weeks has been killing me on the inside, because there's nothing I can do to help her. 

"This place... I just don't know how long I'll be able to stay here..." she trails off. 

Ashley has been feeling worse ever since we moved here, to West Vancouver. Things weren't as complicated when we lived in New York. We had almost everything there; a gorgeous apartment, our exclusive clubs and our friends. It wasn't perfect, but we were pretty close to it.

The problem is, I had no choice but to move here. Two months ago, my boss came into my office and announced that my time working at the New York firm had come to an end and that I was being transferred to Canada. I didn't understand why I was being transferred; I still don't. But I have no control over things like that. 

"Ash, you know I can't leave. I have a job here," I remind her, meeting her gaze with furrowed brows. "We've gone over this before."

"I'm sorry, I just..." she looks away, her eyes setting on the nearby window. She exhales deeply. "I miss New York." 

Although Ashley hates it, Vancouver is a great city. It's definitely not New York, but it still has its charm. The thing that bothers Ash the most is the weather. She hates the cold. But New York isn't much warmer than here, so I really don't mind.