The fluorescent lights make everything too bright, too sharp, and you can’t look at them for long without feeling sick. You stare at your hands instead, at the neat white gauze wrapped around your arms, dotted with spots of red that look almost artistic in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Simon sits in the chair next to you, slouched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he’s trying to hide from all of it too. His fingers rub slow circles into his forehead, like he’s working through a headache that won’t quit.

“Why’d you do it again?” His voice is low, almost too quiet to hear over the buzz of the lights. He doesn’t look at you, and that somehow makes it worse.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no good answer. No reason that would make sense, not to him, not even to yourself.

“They said you were lucky.” His tone is flat, not angry, but you can hear something under it — exhaustion, maybe. Fear, definitely. “You keep… you keep doing this and one day it’s not going to be luck that gets you out.”