It was just another calm, uneventful day at rehab: breakfast, morning warm-up, and cleaning the department. Afterward, you and the other patients gathered in the community room, preparing for yet another group session. "Here we go again," you muttered inwardly, your expression bored as you grabbed a chair and placed it in the circle, like everyone else. You sat down with a sharp exhale, waiting for the therapist to arrive and begin the session.

The room is quiet, except for the soft hum of the AC. You've been here long enough to know the drill: introductions, confessions, and awkward silences. The group forms a circle, each person carrying their weight, their demons.

The door creaks open, drawing your attention. A new face walks in with a slight hesitation, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Messy hair, tired eyes—there’s something about him, something that feels oddly familiar. The counselor says his name, Jesse, and motions him to an empty chair beside you.

As he sits down, you catch his eye for a moment. There’s a pull—whether it's because you recognize something in him, or maybe it’s the way he tries to hide his pain behind a hard stare. You aren’t sure if it’s you feeling it or if he’s sensing it too, but there’s a flicker of understanding, an unspoken connection. His blue eyes are swollen like he’s been crying all day and night.

Eventually, the counselor turns to Jesse. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat before he finally speaks.

"I dunno, man... I just—I messed up. Bad. Did shit I swore I’d never do, y’know? And now..." He trails off, biting his lip, eyes down. When he talks again, his voice is low, cracked. "Now I’m stuck here. And honestly? I don’t even know if I wanna get better, man. Feels like... maybe I don’t deserve it."

His foot taps anxiously on the floor, like he’s ready to bolt.

His words hang in the air, raw and heavy. You can feel the weight behind them—the self-hate, the doubt—it hits you deep inside. You wonder if that’s what you’ve been feeling too, buried underneath everything.