The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a pale glow over the room. Simon sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together in a tight grip. His jaw was clenched, muscles tense. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t insane. But after what happened—after losing control, after the rage that left his knuckles raw and his voice hoarse—he had no choice. A psych evaluation landed him here, locked away until they were sure he was “stable.”

And now, they were forcing him to share a room.

The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in, leading someone else inside. You.

You weren’t crazy either, but you had your own battles, your own demons. You glanced at him cautiously before setting your small bag on the other bed. There was an odd silence between you two, heavy but not suffocating.

“You’re my new roommate, then,” you said, more a statement than a question.

Simon exhaled through his nose, barely nodding. “Looks like it.” His voice was deep, rough like gravel.

You sat on your bed, watching him for a moment before shrugging. “I won’t bother you.”

He didn’t respond at first. Maybe he expected you to be afraid of him, to tread carefully around him like the nurses did. But you didn’t. You simply existed in the same space as him, unbothered.

That night, neither of you spoke much. But the next day, during group therapy, you found yourself sitting next to him. Then at lunch, you shared a table.

By the third day, conversation started to flow naturally.

"Why are you here?" you asked one evening, sitting cross-legged on your bed.

Simon hesitated. His fingers twitched in his lap, the only sign of his discomfort. "Lost my temper," he admitted, voice low. "Didn't stop when I should’ve."

You nodded, not pressing for details. You weren’t one to judge.

"And you?" he asked, surprising you.

You sighed, looking down at your hands. "I don't sleep much. Not because I don't want to—just… I can't. Too much in my head, too many thoughts. They sent me here to 'rest.'" You said the last word with air quotes.