“What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, assessing my disheveled appearance. I’ve been running my hands nervously through my hair for the better part of thirty minutes. I can feel how askew it has become, hanging limply off to one side rather than settling into the neat style he’s accustomed to seeing. I’m normally calm, cool, collected, and dressed to the nines. A perfect picture of a male in corporate, blood-sucking America.

Right now, however, I’m a complete and total mess on the precipice of a very real, very scary breakdown. It’s an odd sensation, and I’m unexpectedly self-conscious anyone is seeing me like this. Even my best friend.

Noah and I have a standing lunch date for Wednesday afternoons, and it slipped my mind—again—that the week is halfway over. The forgetfulness happens far too often when I immerse myself in work; the days pass in the blink of an eye, blurring together, and I’m left wondering where all the time has gone and why my best friend is barging into my office like he owns the place.

I’ve known Noah for two decades. We played club basketball together growing up, becoming fast cohorts as lanky teenagers while we drank yellow Gatorade on the court sidelines. We parted ways after high school; he went to Harvard, and I went to Yale. We never lost touch over the years, both eventually moving back home to the city and picking up where we left off.

A successful, Black entrepreneur, he created a money transfer app a couple of years ago that became the most downloaded app in history for a week straight. After a feature on a national morning show and a commercial airing during the Super Bowl, his name exploded. Forbes Magazine recently named him one of the 40 Under 40 People to Watch in their latest issue.

To me, he’s still the goofy, happy-go-lucky dude from when we were younger. Money and wealth haven’t changed him. He also puts up with my shit remarkably well, while only tossing in a handful of sarcastic remarks at my expense. That’s practically a second job.

“No, I’m not okay,” I snarl, walking to my expensive desk chair and collapsing into it. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, willing it to cave in and fall, crushing me in the rubble of decades-old popcorn material. “I’m fucked.”

“Like, a good fucked? Or bad fucked?”

“Do you think I’d be this grouchy if it was a good fucked?” I ask flatly, bringing my chin down to give him a withering glare. He snickers, not even trying to hide his obvious amusement, and I throw a vulgar gesture his way.