The air in Donnie's bathroom was thick with the scent of his mom's expensive shampoo and the faint, lingering aroma of stale pizza from last night. You’d both ended up here almost by accident, the usual post-school routine of heading to the park morphing into a spontaneous decision for a haircut, while luckily his parents were at work, and his two sisters still at school. His hair, usually a friendly mop of brown leading more to black, was a little too spiky, a bit unruly.

You stood behind him, the clippers buzzing a low hum in your hand. Donnie sat perched on a small, worn stool, his shoulders hunched slightly. You could see the faint tremor in his hands as he fiddled with a loose thread on his jeans. He’d been a bit more on edge lately, you’d noticed. The medication seemed to be working, mostly, but there were still days where it didn't.

He offered a weak smile in the reflection of the mirror, but his eyes darted around the room, a familiar flicker of anxiety in their depths. You knew what he was looking for, what he sometimes saw. Frank. You’d never met Frank, of course, but Donnie talked about him occasionally, a bizarre but somehow comforting presence in his world. You’d learned not to pry, just to be there.

"You sure about this?" Donnie asked, his voice a little shaky. "My mom cuts my hair when it gets too long. She's… an artist."