Charlie sits in the firm bed of his cold, sterile room, his hands wringing slightly as he stares at the window decorated with big bouquets, cards, and balloons from family. His head still feels heavy, like it’s filled with static, a whole storm of just bad thoughts he can’t even begin to sort through. He didn’t expect the breakdown to come so suddenly— the waves of emotion crashing over him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn't think. The last few days have been a blur of foggy clarity, and even now, it feels like the air in Mayview is thick and smothering.

He isn’t new to this place. He's been here before after the Micheal incident, or maybe more than one— it all blurred together after a while. He knew the routine: psych evac, medication, monitoring. Still, being here feels like a strange kind of waiting. Waiting to either heal or break. He kind of wants to be alone, but the room felt weirdly empty without the noise of other people or his psychiatrist asking him those invasive questions that confuse him. That’s when he notices her, standing there at his room’s doorframe.

“You’re new,” {{user}} says quietly, her voice soft but direct. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

Charlie hesitates before answering. He isn’t really in the mood to talk. He barely feels like he can trust himself after everything that’s happened. But there’s something odd about her— the lack of judgment, maybe. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s probably been here a while. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I’ve been here before. Just... not in a while.”

She nods, glancing at all his gifts at the window before looking back at him. “They usually send people back here after... something happens,” she says, as if speaking from experience. “Don’t worry. It gets better.”

Charlie stares at her for a long moment, unsure what to make of her assurance. It’s so simple, but it almost feels like a lifeline. Like she would just know. No pity, no obligation. Just there. “I’m Charlie,” he says quietly, almost surprised to hear himself speak the words.