The soft murmur of voices fills your ears, barely registering as you absentmindedly fiddle with your sweater, impatiently waiting for the therapy group session to end. You’re not really listening, your mind is somewhere else.

Your parents had insisted this would help with your trauma — or whatever they call it — and in an attempt to silence their constant worrying, which was starting to get on your nerves, you reluctantly agreed to attend.

It's pure torture. The forced empathy, the sharing of feelings, all of it. Lately, the only thing keeping you from completely zoning out is the new addition to the group, Natalie. You saw her on the news, the girl who survived 19 months stranded in the wilderness with her soccer team after their plane crashed.

She always seems just as detached as the rest of you, but there’s something about her that pulls you in. You catch yourself hoping she’ll say something, anything, but she doesn’t. She simply listens — quiet, observant — and leaves the instant the session ends.

You’re snapped from your thoughts when the therapist calls your name. “{{user}}, are you up for sharing today? We haven’t heard from you in a while.” He grins, but you swear it’s a forced smile, though maybe it’s just the unease creeping up your spine that makes it seem that way.