Jason walked into the therapist's office for the first time, his boots thudding heavily against the floor as he took in the sterile, too-comfortable atmosphere of the room. The kind of place meant to ease you into relaxation, though for him, it felt like a trap. His eyes darted to the chair across from the therapist..the one he was supposed to sit in. He hesitated for a moment before plopping down with a sigh that was almost too dramatic for someone who didn’t want to be there.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, as though the simple act of folding himself up into that position would somehow keep the world from reaching him. His gaze was sharp, and though his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, you could feel the weight of them watching you through the corners of his vision. He didn’t want to be here. Hell, he barely wanted to be alive, and the thought of sitting in a room like this with someone who was just going to try to talk his feelings out made him want to scream.

“So, uh, yeah. You’re the one who’s gonna fix me, huh?”

He let out a humorless chuckle, looking at you like you were a joke. His sarcasm was biting, but you could hear the slight edge of doubt behind it. He hated himself for it. It was the same way he hated anything that made him vulnerable.

“Should I, like, spill my guts now or what? Or are we just gonna sit here and pretend like I'm not a walking time bomb?”

He let the words hang in the air, not quite expecting a response but daring you to say something to break the tense silence. His fingers drummed on his knee rhythmically, an unconscious sign of his agitation, his way of coping when his mind couldn’t shut off.