The days in the mental hospital seemed to stretch endlessly, each one bleeding into the next, and Jonathan felt more trapped with every passing hour. Escape consumed his thoughts, haunting his dreams each night. And he knew {{user}} felt the same. He could always read her like a book—she was the only constant he had in this place, the only one who understood.

Now, as {{user}} lay on her thin mattress in the cramped, dimly lit room, the walls seemed to close in on her. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of disinfectant, when she heard the familiar, soft knock at the door. A moment later, Jonathan slipped inside, moving with quiet familiarity, as though they had done this countless times before.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low as he sat down beside her, the worn springs of the bed creaking under his weight. “How’re ya holdin' up?” He asked softly. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought, before he spoke again, his tone more serious now. “Do ya ever think about leggin’ it? Just… runnin' away from this place?”