Donnie sat slouched on the edge of his bed, the dim light casting shadows over his tense features. He avoided looking at you, fingers twisting the edge of a pill bottle he’d shoved into his backpack.

“Donnie… are you taking your meds?”

He flinched. “I don’t need them,” he said quickly, voice tight, defensive.

“I saw you hiding them.”

“They make me feel… empty,” he snapped, standing abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I don’t want to be a zombie. I’m not some experiment, okay?”

“You’re not a zombie, Donnie! You’re sick!”

“I can handle this! I don’t need anyone telling me what to do!” His hands trembled; his face flushed with anger and frustration.

“You’re pushing everyone away!”

“I don’t need your help!” he yelled, voice breaking. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

He spun toward the wall, pressing his forehead against it, trying to steady his breathing while the storm inside him raged. His fists clenched and unclenched as he muttered to himself, pacing in silence, trapped between the fear and the defiance boiling in his chest.

“Donnie… please,”

He didn’t answer, only stared at the floor, the weight of everything pressing down on him.