The alarm clock continues to ring, calling me to get out of bed and start a fresh new day, but my body refuses to move. My brain barely registers the sound, because it's busy pondering a much more important question: what's the point? Today's just going to be another day like yesterday, and tomorrow will be the same, on and on, ad infinitum; getting up, working, and going to bed to rest so you can do it again the next day.

The only reason that I finally pull myself out of bed is because of my body's demand for nutrients. As I slowly pull myself out of bed, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Forest green skin, small eyes and messy hair the color of dark milk chocolate. Yup, still me. Still old Mike Drumsticks. Pushing myself out of bed, I toss on my favorite hoodie, the blue one with the crossed drumsticks on the left breast, and start the journey to the kitchen. It's only a few steps down the hallway, but it seems to take forever; I feel like there's a ball and chain attached to my feet.

I'd really like some French toast, warm and gooey with lots of maple syrup—the real stuff from the farmer's market down the road, not that fake "pancake syrup" you get in a diner—but I can't summon up the energy to make it. Looks like it's going to be wheat cereal again. As I pour myself a bowl, my cell phone rings, blaring out U2's latest hit. I pick it up and bring it to my ear.

"Hey, Mike!" Alex's voice greets me. "You just get up?"

I have to drag my answer up from the very depths of my being. Like putting a mask over my words, I put some fake enthusiasm in my voice. "Yeah, just having breakfast now."

"Cool. Hey, listen, we're gonna meet up for practice right after school in the music room. Just got permission from VP Luna."

"Awesome. Can't wait."

I mean it, I really do. Drumming has always been the best thing in my life. I know it sounds weird, but when I'm sitting in front of drumset with a pair of sticks in my hands, I feel free. Some people express themselves with singing, some with writing or painting—I express myself by banging on drums. If I'm feeling angry or happy or upset, I can let the world know without having to say a word.

And it's how I met my friends, being a drummer. Alex and rest of us, our own little band, playing covers for fun. We did everything together—still do.

"Me neither. We'll be waiting for you; Johnny's got a new cover he wants to practice," Alex says. "Anyway, I gotta get going. See you in class today."

"You too, mate."

As Alex hangs up, I'm suddenly painfully aware of the wall that's been growing up between us, between me and the rest of the world. It's like there's a big glass wall that someone started building in front of me, separating me from everything else, from the things that I love. And the worst part of it is, I'm the only one who can see the wall.

I wish I could tell Alex and the others about it, about feeling isolated from everything but I know how'd they react: they'd tell me that I'm just in a funk, and that I'll get over it. With a sigh, I swallow another spoonful of cereal. What's the point of telling them? They can't see the wall, so they can't tear it down.

I finish my breakfast and dump my bowl and glass into the sink with the rest of the dishes that are still waiting to be cleaned. I trawl back to the bathroom, still struggling against the ball and chain around my feet, and get myself cleaned up and ready for the day. I heave my backpack up onto my shoulders; the books and homework it contains seems heavier than normal. I remember yesterday in math class, when I got my quiz back. An A-. I should've been elated, but I just felt hollow.

Maybe I should skip today. Why should I put myself through the trouble? I'm just going to end up coming home late tired out from having to drag myself through everything.

Well, I did sort of make a promise to Alex and the rest to see them. And it will feel kind of good to play with them again, I guess.

I open the front door and greet the warmth of the morning sun as the wind kisses my face. I stop and enjoy it for a moment, closing my eyes to gain the full experience of the day's touch on my skin, like the embrace of an old friend. I step forward and my foot bumps against something strange. Opening my eyes, I look down and see a small cardboard box sitting on my front step. Bending down, I open the top of the box and am surprised to find that inside is a small folded note written on light pink paper. I unfold the note and read the contents.

Dear Mike,

You probably don't remember me, but my name is Fluttershy. I'm in another band with my friends; we both performed in the music competition.

I've been listening to you and your friends practicing for the past few weeks. You do very well; I found myself enjoying your music.

I do remember. Fluttershy, the shy pink-haired girl who loved animals, had indeed come into the music room some weeks ago while we were practicing and shyly asked if she could listen. The others had seen no problem with it, so we continued to play while she listened, sitting quietly in the corner as we practiced. In the following weeks, she had come into our practices on and off, occasionally staying to talk afterwards. The other guys seemed to have warmed up to her.

A few days ago, I saw you leaving afterwards without the rest of your friends. You seemed upset about something. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I had to go to the animal shelter and didn't have time. But I kept thinking of you, so yesterday I wrote this little note and put it on your step. I'm sorry if that bothers you, but this is the best way I thought of to talk to you.

I had a friend who was a lot like you once. I know it can be hard, feeling like you're completely alone, but trust me, you're not. You've still got Alex and your other friends in the band; I know true friends when I see them, having some of my own, and they are all true friends.

And you can rely on me, if you need to. If you ever need someone to talk to about anything, I will be willing to listen. That is what friends are for.

I will be sure to come by practice today after school. I really do like listening to you practice.

Sincerely,

Fluttershy.

I sit on the front steps, reading and rereading the message in its flowery script over and over again, letting the words sink into me. Finally, I stand and start the walk to Canterlot High, tucking the note into my pocket. The weight on my back and around my legs remains, but it feels just a little bit lighter.

The walls are still there, blocking me off from the rest of the world, and I know that I may be carrying the for a very long time. I know that no matter what happens today, I will come home tired and exhausted from carrying them around all day.

But for just a brief moment today, they may come down a little. And that, for now, is enough.

Author's Note

When Captain Whatever proposed a story featuring his OC dealing with depression, I balked initially; writing about a character dealing with a deep, emotional problem is not something I've ever tried and was not sure I could do successfully.

However, after doing a lot of thinking about it, I eventually figured out a suitable outline based in the character doing something that is simultaneously very easy and very hard for someone who is dealing with depression: getting up in the morning.

Then I sought advice from other writers, and learned firsthand what it's like to suffer from depression and how to deal with it: by living one day at a time.

I have a friend who has had emotional difficulties in his life, and I have struggled with finding meaning in my own life, and I have found that the best thing that can be done for anyone in that situation is to just be there for them and remind them that, no matter what, they are never alone. No one is ever alone.

Special thanks to Captain Whatever for requesting this story, and to VitalSpark, Clairvoyant, Luminary, Rinnaul, Bad Dragon, sevenofeleven, Equestria Buck Yeah, and LightningSword for their excellent advice, suggestions and help.