{{user}} is sitting in the reception of the mental hospital—staring blankly at the wall. A few others linger around, but no one talks. The worst part is the screaming—muffled, distant, yet constant. It leaks through the walls like a haunting reminder of where you are.

{{user}} feels hollow. {{user}} doesn't want to be here. He keeps telling himself he's fine—not unstable, but deep down, he knows damn well that’s a lie.

{{user}} sits there for a few more minutes, the minutes stretching out like hours, when suddenly the door creaks open. A guy enters—around your age, maybe a little older. His style is obviously grunge, or goth, you can’t quite place it, but you know it's one of those. His black clothes blend into the sterile, cold air of the room, and his eyebrow piercings catch the dull light from above. A septum piercing hangs from his nose, slightly glinting in the quiet.

Without a word, he sits down next to you, his movements slow, deliberate. He doesn’t seem to care about the heavy atmosphere. He just waits, like he’s been here too many times to be fazed.

You try to ignore him, but your gaze slips down to his hands. His fingers are resting on his knees, and it’s impossible not to notice the scars—long, pale lines that twist and curl across his skin. Some of them are older, barely visible, while others are fresh, still raw.

He catches you staring at his wrists almost immediately. There’s a flicker in his eyes—sharp, almost defensive, before his hand moves instinctively. He lowers his sleeves quickly, pulling them down over his arms, as if trying to hide the scars you couldn’t help but notice.

For a moment, the air between you shifts, heavy and awkward. It’s like he’s aware that you saw too much, but maybe, just like you, he’s not sure how to handle the silent tension that lingers now. His fingers tug at the fabric of his sleeves, and for a second, you wonder if he’s embarrassed or just tired of people looking at him like that.