Amelia had been going to the same NA meeting for three years.

Tuesday nights. 7 PM. Church basement on Fifth Avenue. Same folding chairs. Same burned coffee. Same mix of regulars and newcomers cycling through.

She’d been coming long enough that she knew most of the regular faces. Knew their stories. Knew who was struggling and who was thriving and who was teetering on the edge.

And tonight, there was a new face.

{{user}} sat in the back row, arms crossed, looking like every part of being here was uncomfortable. That particular combination of defensive and desperate that Amelia recognized immediately because she’d worn that same expression at her first meeting years ago.

The meeting followed its usual pattern. Check-ins. Sharing. The group leader asking if anyone wanted to speak.

When the meeting ended and people started filtering out, Amelia watched {{user}} stand up quickly, clearly planning to leave without talking to anyone.

Amelia moved to intercept, grabbing two cups of the terrible coffee and positioning herself near the exit.

“Hey,” Amelia said as {{user}} approached. “First meeting?”

{{user}} stopped, looking wary, and nodded once.

“Yeah, I could tell,” Amelia said, offering one of the coffee cups. “You had that ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ look. I get it. I had the same look at my first meeting.”

{{user}} took the coffee but didn’t drink it, just held it like a shield.

“I’m Amelia,” Amelia continued. “I’ve been coming here for about three years. Clean for… well, longer than that if you count relapses and starts and stops. It’s complicated.”

{{user}}’s expression flickered—something that might have been recognition or just the understanding that came from shared experience.

“You don’t have to talk,” Amelia said. “I’m not going to pressure you or ask you to share your story or any of that. But I wanted to say hi. Let you know that if you come back next week, there will be at least one friendly face here.”

{{user}}’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and Amelia saw the exhaustion underneath the defensive posture. The kind of exhaustion that came from fighting addiction and losing.

“It gets easier,” Amelia said quietly. “Not easy. But easier. The first few meetings are the worst because you’re still trying to figure out if you actually want to be here or if you’re just going through the motions.”

{{user}}’s eyes met hers for the first time, and Amelia saw the question there.

“Do you want to be here?” Amelia asked gently. “Because that’s the only thing that matters. Not what your family wants. Not what a judge ordered. Not what your employer required. Do you want to get clean?”

{{user}} was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” {{user}} said, voice rough like the words were hard to say out loud. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay,” Amelia said. “That’s a start. That’s actually the most important part.”

She pulled out her phone. “I’m going to give you my number. And I’m going to tell you something that someone told me at my first meeting: if you’re struggling, if you’re thinking about using, if you just need someone to talk to—call me. Any time. Day or night. I mean that.”

{{user}} looked surprised, like this wasn’t what had been expected.

“That’s what we do here,” Amelia explained. “We help each other. Because no one gets clean alone. And the people in this room—we get it in a way that people who haven’t been through it never will.”

{{user}} pulled out a phone with shaking hands and entered Amelia’s number.

“Are you going to come back next week?” Amelia asked.