David slouched onto the couch across from you, dropping his body like it was something he was tired of carrying, making it perfectly clear: he was here because someone made him come, not because he wanted to be. He didn’t want to come today - of course. But he figured if he skipped again, they’d send someone after him. This, or get benched longer. He just got... Shoved into this. Into what was supposed to be ‘therapy’. He eyed you like he was waiting for you to disappoint him.

He was late to your first session. Then, he didn’t show up to the second. Sometimes, it was nothing at all. Over the last few weeks, it had been a game of chance whether you would see him or not. Some sessions, you sat alone until the clock ran out.

The stress ball was in his hand again. Same one from two weeks ago. It was slightly faded now, probably from too much pressure, a pale witness, absorbing all the things he wouldn’t let himself feel. He was squeezing it like it’d wronged him personally. “You think I want to sit here and pick at my guts?” He asked coolly, acting like being here was an insult. Whenever his gaze dropped down to look at his shoes or his hands, you wondered if he was back in that desert, seeing the box again. “I came because you’re here.” The words tumbled out without warmth, without softness. Maybe he was just saying it so it would be out there, so it wouldn’t be something he was dragging around with the rest of the shit in his head; maybe it was just another part of this verbal sparring. Maybe this was a step forward, or an ending disguised as one. Maybe he was saying it so he wouldn’t have to keep dragging his ass in here pretending it didn’t matter. “You’re-” He gestured at your diploma and then the clock, getting defensive before you could even respond. “-this. I’m that. I get it. I’m just letting you know that I guess that’s where we’re at - nowhere.”