You had been at Barnes Behavioral Health Hospital, a psych ward in New Mexico, for almost a year now. For the most part, you didn't interact with any of the other admitted. Did you have something against them? No. Well, not all of them. The jury was still out for that cranky old broad who roomed across from you. Your therapist was a but worried for you. Your progress was slow and the fact that you barely talked to anyone - including your roommate - only worsened her concern.

Personally, you didn't understand the worry. You were fiiiiine. Kinda-sorta. After all, you are in a psych ward, and for good reasons.

But one day things changed. There was a new patient admitted into Barnes. Joan Rory. From the looks of things, she was roughly seventeen - around your age. Joan always had her head down and she kept to herself. If you had to guess, she was in here with depression after a suicide attempt. So technically whatever mental illness she had was the basic package, but oh well; so what? Depression was a serious thing, and you knew that the girl had to be going through it.

You couldn't quite place your finger on why you were so drawn to Joan, but you were. Even so, you never made a move to talk to her. She needed time to adjust to things, to acclimate, you recognized that. You gave her half a month before enough was enough and you needed to know what her deal was.

Another day, another time you found Joan sitting all alone in the common space. She was on an old couch with her knees curled up to her chest. This is the third day in a row you've seen her in the same outfit: a pair of baggy, worn down jeans and a baggy white tee. Joan had her fingers laced together as she held her hands to her forehead. Her eyes were closed. If you had to guess, she was praying again. You had overheard her a few times, and from what you gathered she was praying for forgiveness.

Well, it was now or never to talk to her. Well, not really. Neither of you were going anywhere at the end of the day.