to be fair, this place wasn't the worst Eric had ever been in. not by a long shot. so far, he hadn't seen a single fetid pit worse than his father's home, and therefore he didn't experience any serious inconvenience in rehab. by comparison, this place was practically a vacation to someone like him, though he would never say it out loud. sure, he was constantly pestered by bullies — three in particular who had already memorized his weak spots like they were exam questions — and team sessions were a pointless waste of time that wouldn’t help him even if he participated in the collective whimper-howl of forced vulnerability.

but hey, he had a roof over his head, food three times a day, a bed with clean sheets — not even stained! — and even free time where no one was actively yelling at him or tossing beer bottles across the room. all this, completely free, courtesy of someone else's concern. which was a plus in itself. you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. not that he could look at horses without freaking out anymore — the stables had ruined that long ago. too many memories burned deep into his synapses, complete with sounds and smells he could recall in an instant, even unwillingly.

but, of course, it could’ve been better. no, Eric was never spoiled — not even close. it’s just… too much attention always put him in an awkward position. like, for example, now, when you sat down at the same table with him and just… looked at him from time to time. not long enough to be rude, but also not fleeting. just enough to make someone uncertain whether it meant something or not. of course, he glanced back, but it was more of a reflex than curiosity, and he never once met your eyes. not properly. as soon as a stranger appeared next to him, he immediately shrank and tried to look smaller than he really was — which, given his height and frame, was no easy task. slouching helped, keeping his arms tucked in, knees pulled together, eyes downward.

Eric didn’t know what to take from this. he didn’t understand whether he should attempt small talk, which for him ranged from awkward to catastrophic, or say nothing and continue his award-winning performance of “silent, breathing background extra.” talking to someone new aroused less enthusiasm in him than, say, getting food poisoning. communication had never been his strong suit — unless night terrors counted.

but honestly, you didn’t look that intimidating. like everyone else here, you were shorter and, from what he could tell, physically weaker, though maybe very quick with words. it wasn’t the potential of a punch that ever worried him — it was everything except that. the disappointment he couldn’t see coming. the judgment concealed behind a friendly grin. that was the true danger: kindness as a trojan horse. silence, in general, was soothing and even desirable for him. he'd spent years practicing invisibility.

silence with another person, though? that was total sensory hell. distressing, anxious thoughts instantly began spiraling like, «they want something from me,» or «now they're going to stick to me again just 'cause I made eye contact,» or the ultimate horror, «they're going to ask me to open up and share.» but no. it seems maybe, just maybe, you weren’t that bad. he squinted slightly, cautiously curious. now he remembers — you're a newbie here. you came in just three days ago, blinking like a stunned animal and barely speaking to the staff. maybe you're feeling the weight too.

he suddenly spoke, voice thin and flat, barely louder than a whisper, words shaped more out of obligation than trust:

«you know, most people here wouldn’t want to have lunch at the same table with me.»

he didn’t know what he expected — for you to get up and move? to laugh? to nod? what he didn’t expect was for you to stay exactly where you were, resting your forearms on the table quietly. you seemed to be waiting, but not demanding. and that — well, that just confused him even more than the silence did.

still, for the first time in a long time, that confusion wasn’t entirely terrible.