The chairs were arranged in a crooked oval, never quite forming the circle the facilitator kept nudging them toward. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their hum filling the pauses between anxious coughs and shuffling feet. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant, like a place where secrets were meant to be wrung out of people under bad lighting.

You slid into a chair, glancing at the strangers who carried their burdens like invisible backpacks. Everyone seemed exhausted in their own particular way.

Across from you sat a man with a paperback balanced on his knee. Its cover was garish, the title stamped in bold, cheery letters that clashed with his expression: So Your Wife Left You, Now What? The spine was cracked, the corners bent as if he’d been carrying it everywhere, though whether he’d read it or not was anyone’s guess.

The man looked tired, unshaven, his posture loose and unconcerned, but his eyes were sharp—alert, restless, bracing for something to go wrong.

When his turn came, he cleared his throat, speaking in a voice roughened by disuse and tinted with sarcasm.

“My name’s Will. I just got out of a psychiatric hospital. Not as glamorous as it sounds—bad food, worse lighting. They wouldn’t let me bring this little masterpiece inside.” He tapped the book with two fingers. “Apparently, the staff thought So Your Wife Left You, Now What? wasn’t the best choice for group morale.”

A faint shrug. “Why am I here? My marriage didn’t survive. Neither did I, not really. But I keep showing up, because what else is there? Curl up and wait for the ceiling to cave in? Tried that. Didn’t work.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, not in amusement but in the kind of smirk someone wears to pre-empt the punchline of their own life. Then he leaned back as though he’d said enough. “That’s me. Someone else’s turn.”

The circle moved on. Stories spilled out—shaky, raw, searching. When it was your turn, you spoke more than you intended. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Will watching, not mocking or pitying, just listening with unsettling focus.

When the session ended, chairs scraped against linoleum and people rushed for the door like they were escaping something contagious. You lingered near the exit.

Will was still there, sliding the book into his jacket pocket, its ridiculous title poking out as he adjusted his sleeves. He caught your gaze.

“You’re still here,” he said, his tone dry. “That’s rare. Usually people sprint out the second the clock runs down. Guess misery really does love company.”

There was a sharpness in his words, but no malice. You hesitated, and he gave a humorless chuckle.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sarcasm’s a reflex. Cheaper than therapy, though mostly just keeps people at arm’s length.” He shifted, restless, before adding more softly, “But you… you actually listened. Most people nod, wait their turn, then forget you before they hit the parking lot. You didn’t.”

His gaze flicked toward the door, then back at you. A smirk returned, half cynical, half exposed. “So what’s your angle? Planning to save the sad guy with the self-help book, or are you just lost?”

And just like that, the story began.