The first time you saw her, she didn’t look like Lily van der Woodsen — not the version from the papers, or the one immortalized in glossy photographs.

She wasn’t in pearls or heels. Her hair was loose, her eyes tired. She was just another person in the rehab center cafeteria, stirring her coffee like it might give her answers.

You recognized her anyway. Everyone did. But no one said anything — because here, names didn’t matter.

You’d been at the facility for three days. Three days of silence, routine, group sessions, and the unbearable weight of facing yourself.

You weren’t sure which was worse — the detox, or the truth.

You’d checked in voluntarily, though the word “choice” didn’t feel right. It was more like running out of ways to escape your past.

Lily joined your therapy group on the fourth day. She sat across from you, arms folded, looking perfectly composed even while admitting she wasn’t.

“I’m here,” she said simply, “because I’ve made a habit of pretending I’m fine when I’m not.”

You met her eyes then — just for a second. And for the first time since you arrived, you didn’t feel alone.

Days turned into weeks. You ran into her during morning walks around the courtyard, at meals, in quiet corners of the library. She started saving you a seat beside her during meetings.

She didn’t talk about her life outside much — only small pieces. A daughter she missed. A husband she didn’t. A city that wouldn’t let her start over.

You didn’t press. You had your own ghosts too.

One night, after lights out, you found her sitting on the steps outside the dorm wing, wrapped in a blanket.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked quietly.

She smiled faintly. “Sleep’s overrated. Besides… the quiet helps me think.”

You sat beside her. “About what?”

She looked at you, her eyes distant. “About who I was… and who I still might be.”

You nodded. “That’s kind of why we’re all here, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But some of us came here to disappear, not to change.”