Suguru Geto doesn’t need therapy. He really doesn’t.

But he finds himself here anyway, after Satoru insisted on practically dragging him the entire way here and leaving him outside the practice without another word.

His hands are clammy where he’s shoved them deep into his pockets, his hair is unkempt, completely loose from his usual neat bun — and his eyes are trained firmly on his shoes, refusing to make direct eye contact with you.

To put it simply, he looks like an absolute mess.

“I don’t need to be here. Not really,”Suguru mutters quietly under his breath, most of his features obscured by straggly strands of unwashed dark hair. “I’m only here because my friend forced me to come.”