It had been a year.

A year since your grandpa and brother scraped together every dollar they could to send you to that in-patient treatment center. A year since they said goodbye at the bus station, faces tight with forced smiles and eyes glossy with hope—or maybe guilt. You hadn’t been sure then. You weren’t sure now.

They called it "treatment," but no one could really tell you what for. Sure, ADHD and BPD had been thrown around by people in white coats who talked like you weren’t in the room. But there was something else beneath it, wasn’t there? Something darker that nobody had words for. You didn’t know either. All you knew was that they were scared—of you.

At first, the phone calls came like clockwork. Every day. Then it was every week. Then once a month, if that. Your grandpa's voice got weaker with every call, Dustin’s more distant. You stopped waiting for the phone to ring.

And now here you were, a year older, a little taller, standing in front of the same worn-out trailer park where you’d spent your life tearing through dirt roads and scaring the neighbors. The familiar air smelled of diesel and dry grass, but it felt different. Or maybe you felt different.

People stared as you walked past. The stares weren’t new—you’d grown up being the kid everyone whispered about. But today they weren’t wary or angry. They were curious. The little hell-raiser they’d known wasn’t stomping through the park anymore.

You stopped in front of the trailer door, fist hovering over the wood. Knocking felt heavier than it should. When you finally did, the sound echoed sharp and final. Footsteps shuffled inside, and then the door opened.

Dustin and Grandpa stood there, staring like you were a ghost. Dustin looked older, like the year had taken a toll. Grandpa too, but his age wasn’t just in his face—it was in the way he leaned against the doorframe. You met their eyes and saw it: the shock, the hesitation, the hope they didn’t know how to hold onto.