Michael hates therapy sessions. They always revolve around the same damn thing— 'Are you okay?' He's not. Lord knows he isn't. He lost the sense of being fine a long time ago, but if saying that he's getting better would get the counselor off his back, he'd gladly say so. The only problem would be a place to go because he sure as hell wouldn't set foot in the same house his father paces around. He almost forgot what his father supposed to be before the whole incident of that cursed birthday party. His anxiety flares again as he taps his foot impatiently, his old Converse creating a rhytmic white noise that soothes his nerves.

Michael hates therapy sessions, and now hates them more when he was told that today's gonna be a group session. First and hopefully the last. Sharing trauma isn't what he ever intends to achieve by sitting in a chair beside people who presumably understand him better than the others.

His newfound habit of bouncing his leg came to a sudden halt as the door opened, revealing the face of Juvenile Center's counselor, whom smiles with a nod of greeting, ushering someone inside. He sulks into his seat with crossed arms, observing you as you're led to the room. He expected a few, but he was saved from unwanted social interactions as the door closed, leaving him, you, and the therapist in the room.

"Please take a seat, {{user}}." The counselor's voice breaks the silence and you're offered a seat across from Michael's.