There's a thing that happens when you've been somewhere long enough. The edges start to soften. The bolted-down chairs, the white walls, the nurses with clipped voices, they stop being background noise and start becoming furniture in the room of your mind…Static…Tolerable.
I learned the schedule. Wake up. Check vitals. Medication line. Group. Art therapy. Lunch. Free time. Another group. Dinner. Then more free time, which was basically just: Don't set the place on fire, and we'll leave you alone.
Theo was always in the rec room during free time. Always in the same chair, like he'd claimed it as his territory. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear, crossword puzzles stacked beside him, and a gaze that saw through walls.
I kept telling myself I didn't care, that I sat in the same room because the TV was less insipid there, or because the chairs didn't squeak as much. Lies, all of it. I was curious. Sue me.
"Still pretending you sleep at night?" Theo asked, not looking up from his book.
"Still pretending you give a shit?" I shot back.
That earned me a slow smirk. "Touché."
I folded my arms. "You gonna keep analyzing me or actually say something useful?"
He set the pencil down. "You ever notice how everyone here says they're tired but never says why?"
I stared at him. "Because no one wants to say 'I thought about dying again today' out loud over scrambled eggs."
"Exactly."
I hated how that landed, like he cracked my ribs with just a few words.
He picked up the puzzle again. "Have you ever finished anything?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because everything I finish ends up broken anyway."
He didn't flinch, just nodded like that made perfect sense.
**
Three days later, he handed me a pencil and a fresh crossword. Didn't say a word, just slid it across the table and kept working on his own.
I stared at the thing like it might bite me.
But I picked it up.
The first clue was a seven-letter word: "To collapse under pressure."
"Burnout," I muttered.
He glanced at me. "Fitting."
I filled it in. For the first time in weeks, I felt something click into place.
**
We didn't talk every day, but we had a rhythm. He asked things no one else did, and somehow it didn't feel invasive. It felt like he was picking the lock on a door I didn't realize I'd slammed shut.
"What's your worst fear?" he asked one afternoon.
I looked away. "That I peaked at twenty-five. That this is it… That there's nothing left."
He nodded. "Mine's forgetting who I used to be."
I asked, "Who were you?"
"Therapist. Military first, then psychology. Trauma stuff. Thought I was helping people. Turns out, I was mostly just bleeding out on their behalf."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Because I cracked. Loudly. Publicly. Didn't want to be the story, but I became the warning."
We sat with that. It wasn't awkward. Just heavy, in a way that made me feel like maybe I wasn't the only one too tired to carry it all anymore.
**
I started drawing again, nothing fancy, just quick sketches in the margins of therapy handouts. Cats in recovery positions, canine spines, and sketches of Theo's hands when he wasn't looking.
"Those yours?" the art therapist asked.
I shrugged. "They're just doodles."
"They look like anatomy studies."
"Old habits."
"You should do more."
I didn't say yes. But I didn't throw them away either.
**
One night, I found Theo staring out the window in the common room. Snow was falling hard. A thick, silent kind of snowfall that made the whole world feel padded.
"Have you ever thought about leaving?" I asked.
"Every day."
"And?"
"And I'm scared I'll go back to being who I was. Not the therapist. The broken version. The ghost."
I leaned against the window frame. "You're not a ghost."
He looked at me. "Neither are you."
Something cracked in my chest. Not in a bad way, in the way frozen rivers start to shift in spring.
**
The new girl screamed again, this time I was closer. A sharp, guttural noise that sounded like pain and panic caught in the same breath. Not a whimper, full-on, raw panic. The kind of scream that cracks glass and makes the walls shake.
No one went near her room. Not even the staff.
I caught Theo's eye in the common room. His face was tight, jaw clenched. He swallowed hard like the sound cut him deeper than anyone else. The first crack I'd seen in him.
"Think she's going to be okay?" I asked before I could shut up.
He didn't look at me. "Doesn't matter what I think."
I bit back a smart reply. That wasn't his way.
"Then what?" I pushed. "What happens if she doesn't?"
He shrugged. "Then she stays broken."
I didn't like that answer. Didn't want to hear it. But it felt honest.
I walked back to my room. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting that sickly blue glow over everything. I lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling like it was going to tell me the secret.
I wanted out. Wanted to disappear into the night and never come back. But I didn't move.
The silence inside was louder than any scream.
**
Group therapy was next. I sat with my arms crossed, legs tight. The therapist asked what brought us all here. The usual rehearsed lines. Trauma, depression, anxiety, loss. I wanted to say exhaustion but it didn't sound as important.
When it came to my turn, I stayed quiet. Didn't want to drag my failure into the circle.
One of the patients, a guy with ink crawling up his arms, spoke instead. Said his voice was the loudest enemy in his head. I knew that voice. It's the one that tells you you're nothing, useless, broken…like some kind of imposter.
I nodded, even though I felt like the only one who could really hear it was me.
Afterward, Theo caught me by the door.
"You're holding back."
"No shit."
He looked at me like he wanted to say more, but didn't.
"Does it help? Talking like that?"
I shrugged. "Doesn't change shit."
He studied me like he was trying to figure out how to break in.
"I used to think the same. Then I realized sometimes it's about who's listening."
I didn't answer.
**
Later, I got a call from the clinic. The voice was clipped, professional. They asked if I'd come back to fill in a shift next week. No pleasantries, no "are you okay" or "we miss you." Just, "Can you work?"
I hung up before they could ask anything else.
Work was a place I wanted to forget. But the idea of not going back scared me just as much.
**
That night, I wrote in the journal they gave me. It was all questions. Why do I feel like I'm breaking? When did this become too much? What's left when all the light's gone?
I didn't write answers.
I didn't know any.