Simon sits across from you in the visitor’s room, elbows resting on the table, hands bare, still. The cheap overhead light buzzes faintly, casting a sterile glow over the pale walls. He’s not wearing his mask. No gloves either. Just a dark sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, and the kind of exhaustion that settles in the bones, not just the face.

His eyes don’t leave you—not for a second. He watches the way you blink a little too slow, like the room isn’t quite real. The way your shoulders stay tense, even in silence. You haven’t looked at him yet.

He knows that look. Derealisation, they called it. When nothing feels real. When mirrors turn to strangers and time collapses into static. You’d tried to explain it to him once, voice hollow, eyes unfocused: “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, you were admitted to the psychiatric clinic just outside the city. Simon had driven you there himself, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping yours so tight his knuckles went white. You hadn’t spoken the whole ride. You’d just stared out the window like the world was paper-thin.

He remembers the cut on your wrist. The blood in the bathtub. He remembers your scream when he touched you, and the way your face crumpled when the ambulance pulled into the driveway. He remembers signing the admission papers with shaking hands. Your eyes had burned holes through him.

You still haven’t forgiven him.

Borderline personality disorder. That’s what the doctors said. Combined with severe postpartum depression. The perfect storm. He’d read everything they gave him—sat up at night on the couch, researching, trying to understand why the woman he married no longer recognized herself in the mirror.

You hate him for keeping you here. You’ve told him so. But he still won’t sign the release. Not because he doesn’t believe in you. But because the alternative is unbearable.

At home, the girls still ask for you every morning. Avery leaves you drawings on the fridge. Lia keeps climbing into your side of the bed when she has bad dreams. And little Emilia walks from room to room, calling your name like a prayer.

Simon keeps everything ready. As if you'll walk back in any day.

Now, in this too-bright room, he studies you again. Your skin’s paler. Your voice quieter. Your sense of time almost gone—you ask him what day it is at least twice every visit.

Still, he’s here. Always.

Simon leans forward slightly, voice soft but steady.

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