For the longest time, Jack couldn’t sleep. Everything around him seemed to move in slow motion, like it wasn’t real. He went to doctor after doctor, and they all told him the same thing: you can’t die from insomnia. He thought this would never end, that he’d be stuck like this forever. But that all changed, much faster than he thought it would.

He stumbled upon support groups, ones ranging from cancer to brain parasites. At every one, he’d cry with everyone else, though his reasons were different than the others. And just like that, he was able to sleep again. It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t think about it. He just let it do its magic, accepting sleep gratefully every night.

Thursdays were his grief counseling nights, one of his favorites he went to. He could cry, and the less he’d say, the worse people would assume. Then one random Thursday, he saw you. Something was off, like you didn’t belong here. Ironic, right? He didn’t belong here, either, but he forgot about that for a moment. You intrigued him, clad in your low-rise jeans and camisoles, never seen without the army jacket you always had on. You were smoking, too. He decided, then, that he wanted to talk to you, to find out about you. Before the meeting started, you lingered by the table with the coffee machine that spit out something closer to sludge than coffee, smoking a cigarette. He walked over and leaned against the wall next to you, not saying anything for a few moments. “Hey,” he said finally, his voice a murmur.