The Secondhand Fatigue Curse

My wife's first love was bound to an "overachiever" system—every ounce of exhaustion he racked up from grinding away at work got transferred straight to me.

He pulled seven straight all-nighters to land a multi-million-dollar deal and became a legend in the industry. Meanwhile, I ended up in the ER with heart failure.

When I tried to explain it to my wife, she shot me a look of pure disgust. "You're just born lazy," she snapped. "You can't stand seeing him succeed at such a young age, so you make up some sick fairy tale to accuse him."

After that, every late night he pulled chipped away at my body. First came nervous exhaustion, then organ failure—until I was hanging on by a thread.

I went to the hospital for tests, but the doctors couldn't find a thing. A few even hinted I might be suffering from paranoid delusions.

Then, to get his company listed on the stock exchange, he locked himself in his office for two weeks straight. I wound up dead from overexertion in my own room.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the night of his very first all-nighter.

This time, I bolted the door, pulled out a full strip of sleeping pills, and smiled.

"Time to sleep."

My heart seized like an invisible fist had closed around it, squeezing tight. The crushing suffocation jolted me upright in bed.

Cold sweat soaked through my pajamas in seconds.

I gasped for air, eyes darting around the room.

I wasn't dead.

A glance at the clock told me I was back on the night of Todd Bren's very first all-nighter.

In my last life, that was the night my existence turned into a slow, drawn-out execution.

Todd was Anne Graves's first love—and her business partner. A born workaholic, worshipped by the entire company as some kind of productivity god. He could lock himself in for seven days straight, barely sleeping, just to nail a project, walk away with a ten-million-dollar contract, and soak up everyone's adoration like it was his due.

And me? As Anne's husband, I'd end up in the hospital after every one of his manic work binges.

Nerve damage. Heart palpitations. Chest tightness. Eventually, heart failure.

When I tried to explain the sick connection to Anne, she brushed it off as melodrama.

"Can you grow up, Brett? Todd is killing himself for our future. Instead of appreciating that, you're playing the victim for sympathy?"

Her eyes were full of disappointment and contempt.

"If you're jealous, just say so. Don't stoop to this kind of low-blow garbage."

From that point on, every late-night Todd pulled became a death sentence for me. My health spiraled—insomnia, arrhythmia, shortness of breath. But every hospital visit turned up nothing. No physical cause. No explanation.

Eventually, doctors suggested I see a psychiatrist. They thought I was suffering from paranoid delusions.

And Anne? She just grew to hate me more. In her eyes, I was nothing but a lazy, spiteful husband who couldn't stand seeing someone else succeed.

Then, right before the company's IPO, Todd locked himself in his office for two straight weeks to make the final push. And I—right there in the home we'd once shared—dropped dead from overexertion.

My spirit drifted above the scene. I watched Anne throw her arms around Todd, kissing his forehead in a frenzy.

"We did it, Todd! Once the company stabilizes, I'm divorcing that dead weight and marrying you. We'll have a grand wedding!"

Now, I'm back.

That familiar suffocating pressure hit my chest again. I knew what it meant—Todd was pulling another all-nighter at the office.

If his exhaustion gets transferred to me, then what happens if I fall asleep? Does he have to sleep too? I wondered.

This time, I didn't panic like before. I didn't beg for help.

Calmly, I pulled a full strip of sleeping pills from my drawer. I'm a therapist—I'd kept them around for a case study on chronic insomnia.

I popped the entire strip, washed it down with water, without a second's hesitation.

The sedatives hit fast. A heavy fog rolled over my mind.

I lay back, closed my eyes, and just before consciousness slipped away, I murmured, "Goodnight, Todd."

…

I thought I'd sleep straight through till morning. But in the dead of night, a razor-sharp headache ripped me awake.

It felt like someone was driving steel needles into my temples, twisting them in slow circles.

I felt agony. Bone-deep agony.

I clawed my way upright, trembling all over. I'd slept for hours, but my body felt more wrecked than before I'd closed my eyes.

The sleeping pills hadn't worked.

I'd forced myself unconscious, but I couldn't stop the exhaustion from bleeding through. Worse, with the drugs still in my system, my senses were dialed up to eleven—every ounce of that fatigue and pain hit me twice as hard.