The Secondhand Fatigue Curse

Just then, Anne's phone lit up on the nightstand.

It was an Instagram post from Todd. A photo of him hunched over his desk in the office, pen in hand, under the glow of a desk lamp. The caption read: [The most beautiful nights are the ones burned for your dreams.]

In the photo, his eyes were bright, his expression sharp—not a trace of exhaustion.

And in the comments, Anne's like and reply sat right at the top: [Stay strong, my man. You're killing it.]

I grabbed her phone, pulled up Todd's profile, and hit the video call button.

He picked up almost instantly.

His face filled the screen, clear as day.

"Brett? What's up? Why aren't you asleep yet?"

Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I locked eyes with him through the screen. "Todd, what the hell did you do to me? Why do I feel like death every time you pull an all-nighter?"

A few seconds of silence. Then a low chuckle—dripping with mockery and malice, completely unguarded.

"Brett, you're not making any sense. What's the matter, jealous that Anne's been singing my praises? I didn't realize grown men could have such fragile egos.

"Look, some people are just wired differently. I've got more energy than most—it's a gift. You can't fake that."

"Cut the act! You know exactly what's going on!" I was practically screaming now.

"Please, just stop. I'm begging you..." My head was splitting open. I could barely hold onto the phone.

"Brett, honestly? You're just sad.

"But hey, what can you do? You're dead weight. All you do is hold Anne back.

"Oh, and one more thing—I'm pulling an all-nighter tonight. Gonna knock this proposal out in one go. Try to hang in there, yeah?"

He didn't give me a chance to respond. The screen went dark.

My ears were ringing. My vision blurred. The phone slipped from my hand, and I pitched forward off the bed, unconscious before I hit the floor.

…

I woke up in a VIP hospital room.

The sharp sting of antiseptic. The cold, rhythmic beep of monitors.

Anne sat beside the bed, her face a mask of impatience and contempt. She gave not a word of concern. Just a blunt, cutting interrogation.

"What is your deal this time? You had me drag you to the ER in the middle of the night just for attention?"

My chest still ached with a dull, pervasive pain. Even breathing felt like work.

"I—"

"I what?" She cut me off, sharp as a knife. "The doctors said it's stress and overexertion. I told you to just stay home and rest. What exactly do you have to be stressed about?"

"It's Todd..." I managed, my voice barely a whisper.

"Again with Todd!" Anne shot to her feet, towering over me, her eyes blazing with disgust and disappointment. "Can't you, for once, just be happy for him? The company is at a make-or-break moment, and he's carrying all of it on his shoulders! You don't support him, you don't encourage him—all you do is sit around and conjure up these sick fantasies about him!

"Let me be crystal clear—stop this pathetic crusade against Todd. He's the most important partner I have in this business. If you sabotage him, I will never forgive you."

…

I spent three days in the hospital, then I was discharged.

Todd hadn't pulled any more all-nighters during that time, and my body had started to recover—a little.

I grabbed Anne's phone and texted Todd, mimicking her tone. Said I wasn't feeling well and needed him to swing by the house to grab an urgent document for her.

He didn't suspect a thing. Thirty minutes later, he was at the door.

Dressed in a crisp business suit, face fresh and glowing. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine.

Standing next to him, I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow, barely holding it together.

"Brett, where's the file?" His tone was polite but guarded.

I didn't answer. Instead, I handed him a glass of water.

"Have a drink first. You look like you ran all the way here."

He hesitated, then took it and drank. What he didn't know was that I'd laced it with a sedative I used in my practice for hypnotherapy sessions.

The air in the room was thick with the faint, calming scent of sandalwood incense—also prepped in advance.

I guided him to the couch, using the same calm, steady induction techniques I'd perfected over years of clinical work, easing him into a trance.

"Todd, look into my eyes.

"You're tired now. Very tired. You want to sleep..."

His gaze started to go slack. His breathing slowed, evening out.

"Tell me," I murmured, low and deliberate, "why does your exhaustion... become mine?"