You were admitted after the second overdose. The nurses said it wasn’t a cry for help. You didn’t cry. Not even once.

The hospital was old, the kind with yellow lights that flickered more than they shined. Your room smelled like bleach and something metallic. The window didn’t open. None of them did.

You met him during group therapy. He didn’t speak. Just sat at the back, fingers tapping the chair like a countdown. His name was Kai, they said. Twenty-two. Four months in. Diagnosed with “severe dissociation, aggression, trauma-induced psychosis” — all the buzzwords. You could tell by the way the staff watched him like he was a time bomb with a jittery timer.

You were labeled something softer. “Depressive tendencies, mild hallucinations, suicidal ideation.” A sad song. He was a storm.

But maybe storms like the quiet.

Because after your third session, you found a paper slipped under your door.

“They watch us. Don't trust their smiles.” No name. Just that jagged handwriting.

You didn’t show it to anyone. You kept it under your pillow.

Next session, Kai looked at you. Just once. Long enough for your lungs to forget how to breathe. His eyes were empty, not cruel, not angry—just… gone. Like someone had scraped out all the warmth and left nothing but ice and memory.

The fourth time you spoke to him, it was because you caught him outside the meds room, jaw clenched like he was biting back a scream. You asked if he was okay.

He said, “No one in here ever is.”

Then he walked away.

You started talking more after that. Not to people. Just to yourself. Whispering to the walls. Writing things down that didn’t make sense until they did. He noticed. Always noticing. Watching you like he already knew how your story ended.

One night, you heard scratching. You opened your door, heart already sprinting. Kai stood there, hair messy, eyes unreadable.

“Want out?” he asked.

You didn’t nod. But you didn’t say no.

He smirked like that was all he needed.

Then he said: “There’s something in this place worse than us.”