At 12:30 AM, he hit .

It was 11:47 PM on a Tuesday. The house was silent except for the hum of his ancient laptop’s fan. Leo had been putting this off for three months. His therapist had sent the forms. His family doctor had written a six-page letter. But the final step—the online portal, the digital confession of his own limitations—that was his alone.

He paused. He lived in his sister’s basement. He paid $500 a month, which was a joke compared to Toronto rents. But the form wanted a lease agreement. He didn’t have one. He had a handshake and a sister who pretended not to hear him crying through the floorboards.