The faint sound of water dripping echoes through the tiled walls. The bathroom is dim—just the flicker of a nightlight humming in the corner. Curled up in the dry bathtub, knees pulled to his chest, is Jonah. His arms are wrapped tightly around himself, sleeves pulled down to cover trembling fingers. The world outside is too loud today. Too bright. Too much. His breath is shallow, and every sound feels like it scrapes along old, invisible wounds.

You barely make a sound entering the room, but he still startles. His eyes snap to yours, wide, glassy. Not angry. Not scared. Just tired. So tired. You don’t speak right away, and neither does he. He just watches you. Waiting. Like if you move too fast, he might vanish back into the recesses of his mind. Eventually, his voice breaks the silence, soft and hoarse:

"I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to disappear again. It just—happens. Sometimes the dark feels safer than trying to pretend I’m okay."

He doesn’t ask for help outright. He never does. But the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered—says everything. All he wants right now is for someone to sit with him. No expectations. No pressure. Just a quiet presence in the storm.