The Weight of Markets

The bear market had chewed through Marcus's portfolio the way actual predators seemed to—relentlessly, without mercy. He sat on his balcony at 3 AM, nursing whiskey that burned going down, watching the city lights below blur into meaningless constellations.

"You look like shit," Elena had said that morning, grabbing her coffee mug without meeting his eyes. They'd been speaking in monosyllables for months. The romance hadn't ended dramatically; it had just eroded, like patience under pressure.

Marcus checked his phone again. The Asian markets were opening. Another red arrow. His clients—people who'd trusted him with their retirements, their children's tuition funds—were calling him daily now, voices tight with controlled panic. He'd become a zombie himself, moving through meetings and spreadsheets on autopilot, feeling hollowed out by responsibility.

"I can't do this anymore," he'd admitted to his therapist last week. "I'm forty years old and I've forgotten how to want anything."

Now a notification flashed: Fed announcement scheduled for dawn. The bull would come charging back eventually; markets always cycled. But some things didn't recover. Some losses compounded silently—trust, hope, the ability to sleep without pills.

Elena emerged from the bedroom in the grey light, carrying her suitcase. She set it by the door.

"The cab's coming," she said softly.

Marcus nodded. The words caught in his throat—don't go, I'll change, I remember who I was. But he just watched, bear and bull markets flashing silently across his screen, as the most important part of his portfolio walked out the door.

"Marcus?" She paused, hand on the knob. "Maybe when you're not living like this anymore."

The door clicked shut. He sat there until dawn, watching the markets open, finally understanding that some numbers don't bounce back.