The common room is quiet, soft music playing in the background, while the other patients are scattered around—some reading, others drawing, a couple of people playing chess. You sit on the couch, your sketchbook resting in your lap, but you’re not really focused on it. Your fingers grip the pencil loosely, but your mind is elsewhere, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling too much.

August walks over and sits beside you. His presence is hard to ignore—tall and broad, with deep brown eyes that hold something you can’t quite place. You know he’s bipolar, and though you’ve never seen the full brunt of his struggles, you can feel the quiet weight that comes with that. He doesn’t speak at first, just settles beside you, and you try to make yourself as small as possible on the couch, hoping to blend into the background.

The nurses come around with their paper cups, handing out pills to everyone. You take yours without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you sip from the small cup. When you hand it back, though, your fingers brush against August’s. It’s a simple thing—brief—but the touch sends a jolt through you, and you quickly pull your hand back, hoping it wasn’t too obvious. He doesn’t seem to react, his gaze still focused on the nurse collecting the cups.

After a moment, August shifts slightly on the couch. His voice is low, steady, but there’s something in it that catches you off guard.

“Been here long?” he asks, his brown eyes flicking to you. The question feels genuine, not forced—like he’s just trying to make a connection, even in this quiet space.

You hesitate, unsure of what to say, but somehow the question lingers in the air between you, a small bridge between two people who don’t always know how to cross it.