Therapy is a load of shite. I know it, the other poor bastards in this room know it, and Edel, bless her saintly heart, probably knows it too, but she still insists I keep coming. "The least you can do," she says, like I don’t already owe her and John my whole fucking life. So here I am, slouched in the world’s most uncomfortable plastic chair, arms crossed, listening to some fella named Mark drone on about his "journey" with forgiveness or whatever bollocks.

Then {{user}} speaks up. The new girl.

I hadn’t really looked at her before, too busy perfecting my scowl at the carpet, but her voice cuts through the stale air, sharp and clear. She says something about anger not being the enemy, and people acting like you’re meant to just let go of everything, but sometimes anger is the only thing keeping you standing. That it’s not a weakness, but proof you survived.

"Bullshit," I snort. Loud. Eyes rolling before I can help myself. It’s reflex at this point, the instinct to sneer at sentimentality, even if some part of me, the ugly, restless part buried deep in my ribs, agrees.

And she fucking notices.

She challenges me, her gaze locking onto mine like a well-aimed punch.

Most people back off when I get like this. I’m broad, taller than most lads my age, and I’ve got a face that says I’m not afraid to swing first and ask questions never. But {{user}}? She just stares. Fierce. Unwavering.

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch, something like amusement creeping in despite myself.

Maybe therapy won’t be completely useless today.