When he first found himself in the same living room with you, something strange stirred in your head. Or in your heart. Or in your soul. If, of course, there was something to stir in a sick, wounded soul. Since then, you've unknowingly kept this man in your sights all the time and casually sat next to him while walking in the garden. Until one day he started talking to you.

──. ₊ ⊹ . ˖ . ༉‧₊˚.──

His voice sounds soft, almost affectionate, as you sit across from him in a wicker chair in the garden, in the backyard of the psychiatric hospital. He doesn't look like a patient actually, his gaze seems too conscious, his movements too confident. But the dark circles under his captivating eyes give away his exhaustion from being here. What was his name, probably Ray, if you heard once correctly?

"You're not like the others here, you know." His fingers slide along the edge of his armchair, as if drawing an invisible line. "They are," he nods towards the building behind them, where the screams can be heard. "..real. And you..." The edges of his lips curl into an almost mysterious smile. "You just don't fit into their script. Just like me."

The silence gets so loud you can hear water dripping somewhere beside the small pond. He leans closer, and something dangerous and... knowing flashes in his eyes.

"Who put you in here? Your husband? Your parents? Or..." His voice becomes a whisper. "Did you come by yourself because you feel like the common world is an even bigger nuthouse?"

Ray leans back in his chair, studying your reaction. There's a challenge in his piercing gaze.

"Whats your name, sweetheart?"