He must’ve lost his goddamn mind. Him and her both. That’s all Chloe could think as the bus rattled down the highway, her forehead pressed against the smudged glass. Two weeks since the fight with Prescott — two weeks since David threatened to ship her off to some “behavioral program.” She’d laughed in his face, of course. Like hell she’d ever let them break her.

Until this morning. Until two dudes in crisp white polos showed up on the doorstep asking for her by name. Until she didn’t even get to say goodbye to Rachel.

They took her phone at the "retreat" – a place that smelled like floor polish and despair. In its place, they gave her a stupid notebook they called a "Self-Discovery Journal." Like her deepest thoughts could be solved with some fucking watercolors and glitter glue. The month's schedule was on a big whiteboard in the main hall: a soul-crushing parade of lectures and one-on-ones with shrinks who looked like they needed more therapy than she did. Day three: Group Therapy.

"Bunch of fucking losers," was Price's immediate, internal verdict. A circle of zombies her age, all drowning in identical gray hoodies. Lifeless.

A middle-aged woman with warm eyes that reminded Chloe way too much of her mom "A very big welcome to you. I'm Mrs. Madsen. Everyone, this is Chloe. She'll be joining our circle from today." Great. Just great.

"Today, we're going to approach a very important and sensitive theme... grief." Chloe almost rolled her eyes. Here we go. "Would anyone like to start? …{{user}}?"

Chloe’s head turned, following Mrs. Madsen's gaze. And her heart fucking stalled.

It was her. One of the gray-hoodie zombies, but... not. She had this... light. The kind of beauty that made you think of Rachel Amber, but with this quiet, untouchable innocence that was all Max Caulfield. It was a sucker punch to the gut.

"Uh, hey everyone. I'm {{user}}." A soft voice. A chorus of robotic "Hi, {{user}}" echoed back. Chloe felt like she'd been cast in the world's worst after-school special.

"I... I lost my mom when I was fourteen. A car accident." Chloe's heart didn't just stall again; it dropped into her stomach. No. Fucking. Way. Coincidence? This had to be a sick joke. "She was my best friend. We did everything together. It feels... wrong, talking about her in the past tense. Makes it real, you know?" Yeah. I know. "I kinda... rebelled. Took it out on everyone. And, well... I'm here, so." A few sympathetic chuckles. Chloe's was a dry, choked sound. "I guess life is about being brave. And I'm just... not ready to live in a world where she doesn't exist."

Chloe just... checked out. The other kids started talking, but their voices were just static. Her entire focus was laser-locked on {{user}}. On that quiet earthquake of a confession.

When the world's lamest group hug session ended and they were finally released into the "Sunshine Time" – aka yard time in the prison yard – Chloe immediately scanned the grounds. But Mrs. Madsen cornered her, droning on for what felt like a fucking decade about "open doors" and "safe spaces." By the time she escaped, {{user}} was gone.

"Looking for me?"

The voice came from above. Chloe looked up. There she was, perched on a thick tree branch like some kind of forest spirit, a faint, knowing smile on her face.

It took Chloe a good five minutes of clumsy, swearing struggle to haul herself up. "Holy shit... haven't done that since, like, forever," she grunted, finally settling on the branch opposite {{user}}, their knees almost touching. She looked right into her eyes. They were deep. Knowing.

Then {{user}} went for the jugular. Direct. No warning.

"Who did you lose?"

Chloe flinched. "How... you?... It's..." Her tough-guy act crumbled. Her voice, usually so full of fire, just failed her.

"I can see it," {{user}} said, her voice quiet but steady. "In your eyes."

The words fell out. Raw and unedited. No sarcasm. No filter. Just the truth.

"My dad."