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The first thing I see is the hospital bracelet still on his wrist.
White plastic. Black letters. A barcode. The kind of thing you can’t argue with. You can argue with a person. You can argue with a text message. You can argue with silence.
You can’t argue with proof.
He stands in our hallway with a paper bag that has PHARMACY printed on it in loud red. His coat hangs off him. His eyes are dry. That scares me more than tears.
I don’t say welcome home.
I don’t say how are you.
Those are the words people use to make themselves feel useful.
I say, “Show me your hands.”
He blinks. Slow. Annoyed.
“I’m not—”
“Show me,” I repeat, and my voice snaps.
He lifts them. Palms open. Fingers spread. He’s trying to be normal about it, which makes me want to throw something.
No blood. No fresh cuts. Just the faint bruising where they taped a needle in. His nails are chewed down to nothing, raw crescents. He used to make fun of my cuticles. He used to tell me I was dramatic.
Now he stands there, returned to sender.
“Are you alone?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “What?”
“Were you discharged to me,” I say, “or did you escape?”
He gives a thin smile. “They don’t let you escape, Laura.”
He says my name as a challenge. As if I’m the one who needs supervision.
My throat tightens. I taste metal. I hate that my body reacts to him as if he’s a threat. He’s not a burglar. He’s not a stranger. He’s my roommate. The person whose coffee I’ve accidentally drunk for two years. The one who forgave me every time.
He walks past me, shoulders brushing mine. He smells of antiseptic and hospital soap that never fully rinses out.
The paper bag crinkles.
“Where’s your phone?” I ask, following him into the living room.
Coincidentally, his phone lights up.
“It’s Dave.” His voice sounds guilty. Defensive.
“Hey, Dave. How are you? Still married to chaos?”
He gives me a quick wink. A careless apology.
My roommate doesn’t speak for minutes. Dave loves small talk and gossip.
“Ha, you’d kill yourself over your cat ruining the couch? At least you’d have a reason. I didn’t. I still have plenty of pills left that’ll do the trick.”
“Make sure you take enough. Because there’s nothing more embarrassing than waking up and realizing you’re even more stupid than the attempt itself.”
I don’t think Dave can handle the joke. I can’t either.
I scan him from head to toe, looking for signs. I’m too flabbergasted to even ask about the cynicism.
He sets the bag on the coffee table with careful hands. He drops onto the couch, mouth tight, eyes fixed on the blank TV.
“Phone, please.” My voice is sharp, like an army lieutenant’s.
“In my pocket.”
“Give it to me.”
Now he really looks at me.
His face shifts. Something small. Something hostile.
“No.”
It lands in my chest.
I nod once. “Okay.”
That’s the part he won’t expect. He’s bracing for my lecture, my tears, my how could you, my don’t you do this to me.
Instead, I go to the kitchen.
My hands shake so hard I almost drop the glass. I fill it with water. I take two ibuprofen because my head is splitting. Then I put the bottle back and shove it behind the rice.
It’s ridiculous, hiding ibuprofen. It’s ridiculous, checking the knife drawer. My brain runs through our inventory as if we’re in a war zone.
Except we are. The enemy is invisible and it knows his name.
I walk back in with the water.
He watches my hands. Counting.
“Here,” I say, setting the glass on the table.
He doesn’t reach for it.
“You can’t just—” he starts.
“I’m going to say three things,” I cut in. “Then I’m going to stop talking. You can hate me later.”
His jaw tightens. He looks away. That’s permission.
“One: I’m not your nurse. I’m not your judge. I’m not your savior.” I swallow. “Two: I’m not leaving you alone tonight. Not because I don’t trust you. Because I don’t trust the part of you that got you to a hospital bed.”
His lips curl. “You mean the dramatic part.”
“I mean the sick part.” I keep my voice flat.
His eyes flash. He hates the word sick. Hurt is poetic. Hurt is tragic. Sick is paperwork.
“Three,” I say, “if you want me in this with you, you don’t get to make me guess. No disappearing. No locked doors. No ‘I’m fine’ when you’re not.”
He stares at the wall, searching for an exit in paint.
The refrigerator hums. The radiators click. My breathing sounds too loud.
Finally, he says, “You’re making it about you.”
There it is. The cleanest knife he owns.
“I’m making it about us,” I say. “Because I live here. Because I found you.”
His gaze drops to his hands.
His wrists.
The skin is rubbed raw. Not cut. Chafed. As if he fought with something soft that still won.
“I didn’t—” His voice breaks. He clears it. “I didn’t plan for you to find me.”
My heart bangs once, furious. Not at him. At timing. At the fact that I was in line buying coriander while he decided whether oxygen was optional.
“I know.”
He laughs. Brittle. “You don’t.”
I lean forward. “Tell me what you want me to know.”
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
He’s right. I do.
“Try me.”
He pulls the paper bag closer and reaches inside. I brace for razors. Pills. A note.
He pulls out a stapled packet. Discharge instructions. The kind of paper that kills slowly in waiting rooms and narrow offices.
He tosses it aside.
Then he reaches in again and pulls out a plastic sleeve.
Inside: socks.
Gray. Thin at the heel. Rubber grips on the bottom.
“They gave me these,” he says. “For suicide watch.”
I stare.
“They don’t let you have shoelaces. They don’t let you have a pen. They don’t let you have anything that could be used.” He wipes his face hard. “So they give you socks.”
Tears spill down his cheeks.
“Did you try to hurt yourself there?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Good.”
He flinches at the approval.
“I felt ridiculous,” he whispers. “A toddler. An animal.”
“What happened?”
“I ran out of explanations.”
“For what?”
“For why I was still here.” His jaw tightens. “Nothing bad happened. That’s the problem. No fight. No debt. No diagnosis. I woke up. I brushed my teeth. I answered emails.” A short laugh. “I ordered dish soap.”
I wait.
“I kept expecting a reason. Something tragic enough to justify it. Something I could point at.” His fingers twist in the socks. “There wasn’t one. It was just maintenance. Existing. Over and over.”
He looks up, furious at himself.
“I didn’t want to die. I just didn’t want another thirty years of Tuesdays.”
The sentence settles between us.
He stares at the socks again. “I thought I’d feel something. Relief. Peace. Fear.” His mouth twists. “I felt annoyed.”
Not despair.
Annoyed.
“And then you came home and said my name.” His voice shrinks. “And I remember thinking, oh no.”
Because being found means surviving.
“They told me I have to make a safety plan,” he says.
The phrase sounds corporate. Something you’d present in a meeting about ladder regulations.
“They asked me to list warning signs.”
“What are yours?”
“You’re not going to let this be normal, are you?”
“I’m going to let you be alive. Normal can wait.”
He reaches for the water.
“I don’t want to be a problem,” he says quietly.
The words hit something old in me.
“You’re a problem,” I say. “So am I. The rent is a problem. The mold is a problem. You’re not special.”
A startled huff escapes him.
Then his face collapses.
“I can’t do this again,” he says. “I can’t go back there. I can’t have you—”
He stops.
“I need something from you,” I say.
He looks up.
“Not a promise. Something practical.”
“What?”
“Tonight, you sleep in the living room. Tomorrow we lock up what needs locking up. We tell someone qualified. We make this boring and official.”
“You want to tell on me.”
“I want backup.”
“You’re going to hate me.”
“I already hated you,” I say. “When I found you. I hated you because I had to pull your weight with my hands. Because strangers took over. Because you left me holding your body. And I still don’t want you dead.”
His eyes fill.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Thank you for saying that.”
His shoulders shake. Not cinematic grief. Just a body failing under pressure.
I grab the spare blanket and toss it to him. He clutches it.
“Give me your phone.”
He hesitates. Then hands it over.
I set it face down.
I take out my own.
I tap a name.
Lena.
Upstairs. A nurse. Steady hands. No panic.
He sees the name. “Laura, don’t—”
“I’m not asking.”
I call.
“Hey. It’s Laura downstairs. I need you to come over. Now.”
He watches me. Breathing uneven.
He mouths, please don’t leave.
I don’t.
I sit on the floor in front of him, close enough that our knees touch. Close enough that if he tips forward, he won’t fall far.
I don’t hold his hand. I don’t offer poetry.
I stay.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He straightens before the knock.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand. Not to hide the tears. To be seen clearly.
When the door opens, he doesn’t look at the floor.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m the problem.”
A beat.
“I think I want help.”
The word help doesn’t sound dramatic.
It sounds deliberate.
For now, that’s enough.
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The premise of Thirty Years of Tuesdays is unique. It doesn't seem easy to me to approach such a heavy theme in such a soberingly practical and sometimes slightly absurd way. He has no "real" reason for his attempt and makes a morbid joke on the phone. She acts practically and pragmatically. "You're not special."
For me, it was a poignant portrait and a very well-written story.
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Thank you, I really appreciate that. I was trying to balance that tension between the weight of the subject and the almost practical, detached way it unfolds—so I’m glad that came through. And yes, that line “you’re not special” was important to me, precisely because it cuts through the moment in a way that feels both harsh and grounding. Thanks again for reading so closely.
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“I just didn’t want another thirty years of Tuesdays.” A simple yet cutting line.
What strikes me is how you never over dramatise anything. The breakdown of normalcy speaks for itself. The tragedy is in the small things, the very mundanities of life that can wear a person down, unseen from the outside. Was there a buildup? This strikes me as a deeper thing than roommates, but it doesn’t actually need explaining. Just intriguing. The oppressive weight on his roommate is skilfully shown. Well done.
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Thank you Helen — I really appreciate that.
Glad that line landed for you. And yes, the lack of clear buildup was intentional — I wanted it to feel exactly like that: something deeper, but not something you can neatly point to.
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Stunning as always, Marjolein. Wanted to give you the kudos you deserve!
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Since Dutch is my native language, I actually had to look up “kudos.” Thank you, as always—I truly appreciate your encouraging words. 🤗
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DUTCH?! Languages are wild! Kudos is Greek but I use it all the time. Happy to give encouragement and drop some knowledge simultaneously!
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🤣😅🤗🔥
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Gorgeous, powerful writing as always. You supercharged every moment in this, gave it a true, authentic sound and feel. Your work continues to inspire my own writing. Fantastic job!
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Thank you — I really appreciate this. Especially what you said about the control and restraint, because that was very intentional.
You picked up exactly on the line “You can’t argue with proof” — that was doing a lot of quiet groundwork for the rest of the piece, so I’m glad it landed. And yes, the socks… those details are carrying more weight than they seem on the surface.
Also means a lot that it felt authentic to you. And I’m glad it resonates in a way that feeds into your own writing as well
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I like your portrayal of what such a situation actually does to the people around it. It's something I've always appreciated in films and books, and it's shown amazingly here.
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Thank you — I really appreciate that.
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This was a powerful piece about the aftermath of an attempted suicide. The interactions are really great, and very realistic. Fine job indeed.
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Really appreciate that — thank you.
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This is good. Like — brutal in a way that sticks. The biggest thing is the control. Nothing feels overdone. You don’t lean on big emotional speeches or clichés, which is why it hits harder. The opening is clean and sharp-
You can argue with a person… You can’t argue with proof.
That’s doing a lot of work without trying too hard.
The “thirty years of Tuesdays” line is the one. That’s the core of the whole thing. It doesn’t feel dramatic — it feels real, which is what makes it land. Also like that Laura doesn’t turn into a savior. The whole “I’m not your nurse/judge/savior” bit keeps it grounded. It feels like two people dealing with something messy instead of one person fixing the other. The physical details are doing a lot too. The bracelet, the pharmacy bag, the socks — the socks. That part is simple but it says everything without explaining it. The ending works because you don’t push it. You stop at “I want help” instead of trying to resolve everything, which makes it believable. If I’m being picky a couple lines feel a little too polished compared to the rest. Like-
“The enemy is invisible and it knows his name.”
It’s a good line, but it feels more like writing than thought. You could rough that kind of thing down just a bit.
Though, this is strong. Not in a flashy way, just in a this feels true way.
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Rebecca, I really appreciate your thoughtfull comment, as always.
Especially the way you picked up on the control and the restraint. That was very intentional, so it’s good to see it land the way I hoped.
You’re spot on about the “thirty years of Tuesdays” line — that was the anchor for me while writing. And interesting point on “the enemy is invisible…” — I see what you mean there. That line might be leaning a bit more toward “written” than the rest.
Also glad the smaller details (the socks especially) came through — those are doing more work than the dialogue in some ways. Thanks for the close read.
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The humor works — the Dave phone call, "still married to chaos," the morbid crack about pills. That's where the voice feels most alive and unguarded.
Where I stumbled: I couldn't find the dramatic engine. Laura holds firm from the first line and never wavers. He resists, but barely — every "no" folds within a beat. So the outcome is never really in doubt, which makes this read more as a vignette than a story. There's no point where things could genuinely go the other way.
The resolution lands soft for the same reason — "I think I want help" feels earned emotionally, but not narratively, because nothing in the scene truly threatened it.
I also struggled to connect it to the prompt. He's arriving home, yes — but the arrival doesn't shape the scene. It could open mid-conversation and nothing structural would change. The prompt asks for something where the first or last time matters as a narrative force, not just a setting.
The prose is controlled and the tone is sharp. But I kept thinking: what if all of Laura's competence — the locked drawers, Lena, the living room plan — doesn't work? What if he does it that night anyway, and leaves her a note saying he chose pills so she wouldn't have to clean up? That one line would use her own language against her — she spent the whole scene turning crisis into logistics, and he mirrors it back as a final gesture. And Laura, who refused to cry the entire story, finally breaks. Now you have an arc. Now the first-time arrival is also the last. And the piece says something specific: practical love isn't enough. That's a story.
The writing is already there. I just think the structure is protecting the reader from what the material actually wants to do.
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Thank you — this is a really thoughtful read, I appreciate the depth of it.
You’re absolutely right that the piece resists a more traditional dramatic engine. That was a deliberate choice — I wanted the tension to sit in containment rather than escalation. Laura doesn’t waver because she can’t afford to; the situation is already past the point where emotion or uncertainty would help.
I also understand your point about the outcome feeling inevitable. For me, the fragility sits precisely there — in how thin that control actually is, even if it holds for now. I was less interested in whether it would fail that night, and more in what it takes to get through it at all.
Your alternative version is striking, especially the reversal with the note — that’s a powerful direction. I think I chose to stop just before that, and let the piece remain in that quieter, unresolved space.
Really appreciate you taking the time to engage with it this closely.
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I get why you didnt include the back story, but a reason why Laura choose to step in when she didnt before could be helpful.
Great description of how mental illness impacts the people around them like collateral damage from a bomb.
I understand this line-
' I just didn’t want another thirty years of Tuesdays.'
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Thanks for your comments Marty. There isn’t really a before/after here — this is her first response, which is why it’s so immediate and practical.
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This felt incredibly real and grounded. I really appreciated how the situation was handled without melodrama and instead unfolded through small, practical moments. That approach made it feel especially authentic. I also found the limited use of names and backstory very powerful. It created a sense that this could be anyone and that something like this could happen to anyone in any space. That universality made the story hit even harder for me. The clean, controlled—almost clinical—prose also worked really well here. Nothing felt over-explained or sensationalized; it trusted the reader to fill in the gaps, which suited the subject matter. A very impactful piece.
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Thank you Katherine — that’s exactly the line I was trying to walk. Especially keeping it stripped down and almost clinical, rather than leaning into emotion.
I’m glad the lack of names and backstory worked for you — I wanted it to feel less like a story and more like something that could happen anywhere, to anyone, without warning.
Really appreciate how carefully you read this.
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Stunning story! I love the ambiguity pervasive in the piece --- whether they're in love with each other, all the hiding he had to do, things unsaid. The clipped tone is also perfect for the piece. Lovely work!
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Thank you — I’m especially pleased the ambiguity and the control came through.
I tried to keep both the relationship and the language slightly withheld, so the tension sits in what isn’t said as much as in what is.
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Great way to convey the tone. Staccato and direct. Good use of the title in the story, too. I like how Laura just cuts through all the fluff and dramatic potential and gets to the point and to possible solutions. It would be interesting to learn why Laura decided to step in to do something for him since it almost seems like they met by some random encounter. I also like how to show the struggle for attention and to not be a bother at the same time, and then how Laura cuts through that, too, stating that it is a bother and that she is going to be there, anyway. He is fortunate that he encountered Laura, as in the end, it seems he really does want to live. Nice work!
Also, nice job posting concerns about the judging. At the very least, I hope it leads to a forum, or more knowledge about a forum, where Reedsy writers can ask questions. The judging is very subjective, but when I see a writer with a first-time story honored and then never posting another story or being part of the community, I wonder how that writer happened to post for that specific contest. Granted, it could all just be happenstance; it just makes me wonder, especially when I read other entries for the same contest that I feel are technically better, more in line with the theme and prompt, and a higher quality read (the subjective part, I know). Thank you for putting it out there.
On a related note, do you have a profile on the Discord server for Reedsy? They have a few channels there where I feel you might be able to have this discussion more broadly and get further response.
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Thank you — I’m really glad the tone landed the way I intended. I wanted Laura to strip everything down to what’s practical rather than emotional, so it’s nice to hear that came through.
Your question about why she steps in is a good one. I kept that deliberately minimal — to me it’s less about their history and more about the moment where someone simply decides not to look away. That felt more interesting than explaining their connection.
And I appreciate your thoughts on the judging discussion as well. I’ve said what I wanted to say on that topic, and I’d rather keep the conversation here focused on the stories themselves.
I hadn’t looked into the Discord yet, but I’ll check it out — it sounds like a good place for broader discussions like that. Thanks for pointing me there.
I really appreciate you taking the time to read and engage so consistently — it doesn’t go unnoticed.
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I think this is pretty powerful stuff. I wondered if you struggled with exactly what relationship they had. It feels more intimate than roommates but not lovers or siblings. Best friends wouldn't necessarily live together, but if they did, I think that's how I see these two. There's a raw closeness. Did you consider giving him a name? Lots of "He" that might have been easier to relate to him with a name. I love that it's a unique take on suicide, and there's not a cliche to be found. Nice worl.
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Thanks, Patricia — I like your reading of that in-between space.
I deliberately kept him unnamed and the relationship slightly undefined; I wanted the focus to stay on function rather than labels — two people dealing with a situation, not a role.
That “raw closeness” you mention sits exactly there for me.
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Another good one. Tough love. Spare, wonderful writing as usual. It did make me wonder about suicide. Camus said it was among the most important philosophical questions to interrogate.
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Thank you, Chris — and yes, Camus is hard to ignore here.
What interested me was almost the opposite direction: stripping the moment of grand meaning and letting it sit in something more practical, even slightly absurd.
That tension felt more unsettling to me than despair.
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I think this is really lovely Marjolein. The beginning is particularly captivating.
One thing worth noting - the voice amongst characters and narrator is very consistent - short, punchy sentences. I wonder if, say in a revise, there’s a way to look at this to add just a little distinction between voices. I loved it, but it was a small component that brought more attention to the writing than the story in my most humble opinion.
But what do I know! :)
Well done.
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Thank you — I’m really glad the opening pulled you in. And I appreciate this note as well. The consistency in voice was intentional, but I see what you mean about it potentially drawing attention to the writing itself.
It’s a good reminder for a next pass — to see where a bit more distinction could serve the story without losing that tight control.
And trust me, you know more than you think 😉
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This has already been said in the comments but it's the masterful restraint in the prose that strikes me. Its intensity comes from natural dialogue and giving just enough to the reader for the space to feel it. The short sentences really create the right rhythm for the topic and the characters' responses to it here.
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Thank you — “masterful restraint” is a beautiful way to put it. That balance of giving just enough and trusting the reader was exactly what I was aiming for, so I’m really glad it landed.
And I appreciate you noticing the rhythm as well — those short sentences carry a lot of the weight here.
Thanks for reading so attentively.
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Marjolein, as always you have the ability to write a line that stays with the reader. "You can't argue with proof" and "From thirty years of Tuesdays"...You are special. Thanks not only for sharing but being.
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Thank you — that really means a lot. I’m especially glad those lines stayed with you; that’s always what I hope for.
And your last words… I appreciate that more than I can easily put into a sentence. Truly.
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This held me throughout, and reminded me of how far we need to go. Your understated prose screams volumes.
“You’re not going to let this be normal, are you?”
“I’m going to let you be alive. Normal can wait.”
Excellent work Marjolien.
Jack
I read recently. Suicide favors older white men.
In the United States, approximately 37,000 to 39,000 men die by suicide annually, accounting for nearly 80% of all suicides in the country. In 2023, data indicated 39,045 men took their own lives, with the male suicide rate being roughly four times higher than that of females.
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Thank you, Jack — I really appreciate that.
Glad those lines stood out to you, they carry a lot of the core tension. And yes… there’s still a long way to go.
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Marjolein- wow. This genuinely moved me to tears. I'm sitting here, wondering if I should hold them back as I always have or not. This story was so incredibly good. You've left me speechless, which is such a hard thing to do. This was storytelling, and you have a knack for that. Really. When Laura calls Lena, and he admits that he needs help (which is insanely hard to do, especially in his case), that was a really powerful moment. You don't yell the diagnosis or anything, you just let it sit there, and that's really, really nice. What he did, or at least what he tried to do, isn't plastered onto him on one of those "Hello, my name is..." stickers or anything. What you wrote here was devastating in its heart, and you perfectly captured these feelings. Especially when someone you love does this, or tries to, it can be hard, but I think you really put it into a sort of beautiful almost poetry-like, but not poetry at the same time. If I can offer a bit of a suggestion (trying this out!), sometimes the lines of the characters feel like they were specifically written for a story. The characters are beautifully written in themselves, but you could make this piece even stronger by tightening up the dialogue and making them sound more real to life. For example, maybe including a quite morbid joke by the man. Otherwise, everything else is just beautiful. I really cannot tell you how much I loved this story. It might be my favorite one by you so far! Great job, and as always, excellent work!
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Hazel, this means a lot — thank you.
I’m really glad the restraint came through; I tried to keep everything as matter-of-fact as possible and let the weight sit underneath rather than on top.
And your note on dialogue is fair — I kept it slightly controlled on purpose, though he does sneak in a fairly morbid joke on the phone… which probably says more about him than anything else.
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