Sitting next to you, Jason did little more than stare at the floor, arms crossed over his chest as the therapist droned on.

The entire session, he hadn’t said a word. A few grumbled noises here and there, the occasional nod or shake of his head, but nothing more. He made it clear he didn’t want to be here, and honestly, he didn’t understand why you were forcing him to sit through this.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of listening to someone analyze his so-called “issues,” Jason exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair.

"I don’t get this crap," he muttered, voice laced with irritation.

Therapy. What a joke.

He didn’t need to be here. He didn’t need to talk about things. What good would it even do? Nothing would change what he had been through, what he had done. And yet, here he was—because of you. Because, for some reason, you thought this would help him.