Nic Sheff had been here for fourteen days, six hours, and thirty-two minutes—not that he was counting.

According to the nurse, he was on his best behavior. But “best” was relative in a place where the showers ran lukewarm and the walls were the color of unbuttered toast. In truth, he spent most days buried in a dog-eared copy of ‘Betting on the Muse’, which he both loathed and couldn’t stop rereading, like it might somehow fix the ache that lived behind his ribs.

When the nurse told him he’d be getting a roommate, he laughed once—dry and humorless—and went back to organizing his pencils by height. The idea of sharing space again, of sleeping within arms’ reach of a stranger, made his skin itch like withdrawal. But rehab wasn’t a hotel, and comfort wasn’t the priority.

You arrived with a nurse in tow and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking like you’d rather be anywhere else. Your sneakers squeaked against the tile floor, and you noticed immediately that the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale wintergreen mints.

Nic didn’t look up right away.

His bed was by the window, his journal open beside him—half a page of scrawled lyrics bleeding into a messy sketch of a hand holding a cigarette. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie pulled over his head like armor. When he finally did glance over, his eyes were impossibly blue and bloodshot at the edges, like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“you must be the new girl,” he said, voice raspy with disuse or regret—it was hard to tell.

Then, like an afterthought: “I don’t take up much space. And I’m not big on small talk, if that’s a relief.”

He tried to smirk. It didn’t quite land.

There was a silence, the kind that stretches too long, then:

“you want the bed by the door? Or are you like me and want the escape route?”