The air in the asylum was thick, heavy. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d breathed freely. You didn’t touch people. You couldn’t. No one ever survived that.

The guards whispered about a new roommate—no, cellmate. You told yourself it wasn’t true. But when you opened your eyes one day as you slept, he was there. A boy. Standing above you. You hadn’t seen a boy in years. You hadn’t seen anyone in years.

You scrambled back, your body colliding with the corner of the wall. Your knees tucked to your chest, trembling. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost a year, not beyond whispers to yourself or the frenzied scratches in your notebook.

“You’re a b-b—” The words tumbled out.

“And you’re a girl.” His voice was steady, like he wasn’t fazed at all. His dark eyes—so calm they almost felt cruel—met yours without flinching. His tone wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t gentle. There was something foreign in it. Normalcy.

You said nothing for the rest of the day. You stayed in your corner, clutching your notebook. You scribbled frantically.

Cellmate tried to talk to you. You didn’t respond. Not to his questions. He eventually took over the beds that had been shoved together in the cramped cell. He even took your blanket. You didn’t stop him.

When he fell asleep, your chest loosened. You hated him. You hated being alone more. The concrete floor was cold. You missed your bed, but you didn’t dare move. You didn’t dare touch him.

At some point, exhaustion took you. You dozed off. Foolish. A pressure jolted you awake—two fingers brushing against your clothed shoulder. No one has touched you in years.

You flinched, scrambling. He was kneeling beside you, his gaze steady and curious, his posture too calm. Too calm for someone put in this place.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly, as if his question wouldn’t send you spiraling.

Your heart thundered in your chest. You stared at him, unblinking, your body trembling with panic. Cellmate had no right to ask. You didn’t know cellmate. You didn’t trust cellmate.