The stale scent of coffee and damp carpet lingered in the low-ceilinged room. Folding chairs lined up in imperfect circles, name tags forgotten on a plastic table by the door. Another support group was wrapping up—this one for parasitic brain tumors. No one asked questions anymore. Just a name, a handshake, and a story.

Jack—well, tonight he was "Cornelius"—had sat through the hour pretending to clutch grief he didn’t feel, nodding along like a sleep-deprived disciple in search of salvation. But he wasn’t the only one faking it.

Across the room, you were already peeling off your name tag—and heading toward the door. He’d seen you before. A few times, different groups, always different names. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. But you always showed up early, smoking that damn cigarette, took two creamers in your coffee, and left before the circle had time to close.

That irked him. Because he knew what you were. Not a sufferer, not a seeker. Just like him—a fraud in clean clothes, riding the emotional bleed of others for your own fix. And he wanted to expose you. Oh damn he did. But he couldn't, because he was just the same. Same face, different name.

"Hey," he called out, catching you near the stairs after the group therapy session finished.

He gestured vaguely around as you turned. “Pancreatic group tomorrow, right? Or is it colon cancer next?” He asked with dry sarcasm.