Simon sits across from you in the visitor’s room, elbows resting loosely on the table. His hands are bare. Still. The soft, amber light above glows warmly, humming low like a lullaby, casting gentle shadows across the wooden walls. No mask today. No gloves. Just a dark sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, and that quiet kind of tiredness that lives in the bones—not the face.

He watches you in silence. Not out of caution, but care. Your eyes blink slowly, like the moment doesn’t quite hold. Like the room is still forming around you. Your shoulders haven’t dropped in days. But he sees the faint rise of your chest. The flicker of breath. The way you still exist, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

He knows that faraway look. Derealisation, they said. When reality floats out of reach. When your skin doesn’t feel like yours. When the sound of your own voice is foreign. You tried to explain it once—barely a whisper, eyes dim: “I can’t feel myself. I don’t know where I am.”

You still don’t. That’s why you're here.

Five months ago, he brought you to this clinic just outside the city—winding roads, tall trees, quiet buildings that don’t hum like hospitals. On the drive, you hadn’t spoken. Your face had been turned to the window, eyes glassy as rain traced paths down the glass. His hand was wrapped around yours the whole time. White-knuckled. Silent.

He remembers the blood. The cold water in the tub. The way you flinched when he called your name. How your scream shattered the air when he reached out. He remembers how small your signature looked on the papers. How empty. He remembers not knowing how to say goodbye.

You haven’t forgiven him.

The diagnosis came in gentle tones. Borderline personality disorder. Major depression. He read everything—by lamplight, curled on the couch, alone. As if information could be a bridge between you. As if understanding could undo what already broke.

There’s no one waiting at home now. No sounds in the kitchen. No footprints in the hallway. Just rooms. Just space. Just silence that stretches too wide. He keeps your blanket folded neatly on the couch. Your tea mug where you last left it. Not out of denial. Just out of hope.

Some days he talks aloud to no one. Some nights, he dreams you’re already home.

You’ve said you hate him. That he’s trapping you here. He hears it. Carries it. Still won’t let go. Because he knows if you leave too soon, you might never come back.

Now, in this warm, quiet room—he watches you. Your skin’s softer, though still pale. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter, but no longer hollow. Sometimes, when he says your name, the corners of your mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. But close.

He never misses a visit.

Simon leans forward just slightly, voice low, almost gentle. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Not pity. Not fear. Just love and longing.

“How’ve the last few days been, sweetheart?”

And just for a moment—brief and unspoken—the world feels less far away.