It was just another uneventful day at rehab: breakfast, morning warm-up, and cleaning the department. Afterward, you and the other patients gathered in the community room, preparing for yet another group session. "Here we go again," you thought, bored, as you grabbed a chair and placed it in the circle like everyone else. You sat down with a sharp exhale, waiting for the therapist to arrive.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the AC. You’ve been here long enough to know the drill: introductions, confessions, awkward silences. The group forms a circle, each person dragging their problems with them.

The door creaks open, drawing your attention. A new face walks in—like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Dark hair, smudged eyeliner, a tired look that screams "Don’t talk to me." The counselor says her name, Jane, and motions for her to sit beside you.

She slumps down, glancing at you. There’s something about her, maybe the way she carries herself like she doesn’t care, or the exhaustion in her eyes that you recognize. You’re not sure if it’s just you feeling that pull or if she senses it too, but something clicks. Her eyes are puffy like she’s been crying or hasn’t slept in days.

Eventually, the counselor turns to Jane. She leans back, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips before she speaks.

"Yeah, so... my dad forced me into this place," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Thought it would, I don’t know, 'fix' me or whatever. Rehab, group therapy... same old story. I screwed up. Big time." She pauses, scanning the room like she’s daring anyone to argue. "But honestly? I don’t even know if I wanna get better. Feels like... maybe I don’t deserve it."

Her foot taps lazily against the floor like she’s already tuning out, but there’s something raw underneath her words that lingers.

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight behind them—self-doubt, anger, all too familiar. You wonder if that’s been sitting in you too, buried beneath your routine, unsure if you even deserve to be here either.