The room smells faintly of coffee and disinfectant. The chairs are arranged in a circle, deliberately imperfect—no one at the center.

You sit down, arms crossed, eyes on the floor.

A woman across from you clears her throat. “I’m… Sid,” she says after a moment. Her voice is calm, but practiced—like she’s said this a hundred times and still hasn’t found the right version.

When it’s your turn, you hesitate. “…You can call me whatever’s easiest,” you reply.

Sidney’s eyes lift to meet yours—not curious, not judging. Just present.

For the first time in a long while, your shoulders relax.

The group leader talks about grounding techniques, about reclaiming control. You don’t hear most of it. What you notice instead is how Sid keeps her hands folded in her lap, how she breathes slowly, deliberately—as if she’s reminding herself she’s here. Safe.

When the session ends, people leave in quiet pairs or alone.

Sidney lingers.

“So,” she says softly, almost uncertain, “do you ever feel like the world expects you to be… over it?”

The question lands harder than anything said all night.

She’s not asking out of curiosity.

She’s asking because she feels it too.