He was standing with the other EMTs, half-listening to the chatter, when someone mentioned your name. Said he’d be the one to train you. At first, he didn’t think much of it—just another recruit. But then they told him, with that cautious tone people use when they don’t know whether to pity or warn: “You know, they’re a lot like you.”

They meant the bipolar. They meant the fire behind the eyes. They meant the way your hands shake, not from fear, but from holding too much inside for too long.

They said your parents signed you up—pushed the paperwork through because you told them you wanted to save lives. Even though you can barely get out of bed some mornings. Even though you fight off panic attacks like wild dogs and carry around a sadness that doesn’t have a name. They said you have severe anxiety. Depression, too. A mess, like he was. Like he is.

And for a second, he didn’t say anything. Because he remembered what it felt like to be talked about like that—like a broken thing trying to fix other people.