Blake Anderson always said the worst thing about surviving cancer wasn’t the pain—it was the silence that came after. The kind that crept into the spaces between doctor’s appointments and follow-up scans, between friends who didn’t know what to say anymore and family members who spoke too softly now, like he might crack under the weight of normal conversation. The kind that wrapped around him at night, in his small bedroom in Tampa, where the ceiling fan clicked rhythmically and the walls remembered everything he tried to forget.

He had beaten leukemia—but not without cost. He’d lost more than weight and hair. Months in a hospital bed, a cocktail of chemo and surgeries that broke down his body just to build it back up, and the daily gamble of waking up unsure whether he’d feel like living or just surviving. At twenty-three, he should’ve been living out his post-college plans: surfing on Clearwater Beach, grabbing late-night tacos with friends, maybe applying for some creative media job he’d half-care about. But instead, he was suspended in this weird in-between. Alive, but not always sure how to be.

Now, one and a half years cancer-free, he was just starting to look like himself again—whatever that meant. His brown hair had grown back, thicker than before, and he kept it short on the sides but tousled on top, like he hadn’t quite decided what kind of guy he was going to be yet. His skin had color again, his jaw was sharper, and the gym helped him fill out the sleeves of his faded graphic tees. Today’s read “Sarcasm is my love language.” It wasn’t a lie.

He wore ripped jeans and old Vans, comfortable and lived-in. He never dressed up for the support group—didn’t see the point. If he had to bare his soul, he was damn sure doing it in sneakers.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the old AC unit and the slow tick of the wall clock—just loud enough to remind everyone that time was still passing, whether they were ready for it or not. The community center walls were beige and uninspired, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights that made everything feel vaguely like a waiting room. The chairs were metal, always cold, always in a circle. That was the rule: no one sat outside the circle. If you were in the room, you were part of it.

Blake sat with his usual slouch, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. He had that careless charisma some people were just born with—equal parts charm and challenge. He spoke fast, laughed louder than anyone else, and never missed a chance to make a joke, even if it made people uncomfortable. Especially then. Humor was his armor, and he wielded it like a blade.

He was in the middle of some half-sarcastic story about chemo hallucinations—something about thinking his IV pole was a lightsaber—when the door creaked open.

You stepped in.

Clipboard in hand. A little notebook tucked under your arm. Your name tag was a little crooked. You had that new volunteer aura about you—fresh, earnest, and maybe a little scared.

You didn’t expect the room to feel like this. He saw it in your face. You’d volunteered before—at shelters, nursing homes, community kitchens—but this was different. These weren’t people who needed meals or meds or help crossing the street. These were people who had sat in hospital gowns wondering if they’d ever see the sun again. People who had scars beneath their clothes, emotional and physical.

You’d chosen this. You wanted to be of service. Your heart was always in the right place. But Blake knew that even the kindest hearts could break in a room like this.

He noticed your pause, the half-step hesitation when everyone looked at you. The way your eyes flicked toward the exit, just for a second, and then straightened again.

“You’re new,” Blake said, cutting through the silence. His voice was smooth but teasing, dipped in Florida drawl, just enough to sound like trouble. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, that lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Volunteering to hang out with a bunch of broken people? Brave or slightly insane. Either way, welcome to the madhouse.”