Brittany
The Past - Age 22
It was my second day at the facility. The quiet, white walls, the sterile air—it felt suffocating. But it also felt safe. Safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. I wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but I wasn’t exactly running from it either. My whole life, I’d been running. Running from the truth, from myself. And now, here I was.
The other patients mostly kept to themselves. The whispers, the sideways glances, the knowing looks—they all stung, but I didn’t let it show. Not anymore. I’d mastered the art of looking blank, of becoming invisible in a room full of people who didn’t know the real me.
I walked into the common room, my eyes scanning the space, trying to find a corner where I could blend in. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want anyone’s pity. Not today.
And then, I saw her.
She was sitting on the couch, sketching in a notebook. She had this quiet strength about her—like she was made of something harder than the air around us. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way she carried herself. Like the world couldn’t break her, even though you could tell she had been through the kind of pain thatcould ruin a person. I wasn’t sure what it was about her, but something about her made me feel... less alone.
I looked away quickly, not wanting to draw attention. She didn’t notice me at first, but then—her eyes. They flicked to mine, and there was something there. A recognition? A flicker of something—empathy? Or maybe just curiosity. I couldn’t tell.
I felt a wave of panic rise up inside me. I was new here. I wasn’t supposed to be seen. I wasn’t ready to connect. I turned quickly, retreating to the far corner of the room where I could breathe again.
But she didn’t look away.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. I could feel the weight of her stare, but I refused to meet it. Not now. Not yet.
Later that Day
It had been a long day, filled with therapy and awkward glances from everyone else in the room. Sylvia had been kind enough to talk to me—at least, she tried. Tate, on the other hand, seemed to think my silence was an invitation for bad jokes and more silence.
But the real moment came during the group therapy session. I was sitting across from a girl—Corinne. She had this aura about her. People seemed to gravitate toward her, even if she kept to herself. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, there was this calmness in her voice that made you want to listen.
It was hard to ignore her, but I did my best. I wasn’t ready to speak, wasn’t ready to open up to anyone—especially not someone who looked like they had it all together. I didn’t want to see pity in her eyes. I didn’t want to be another broken piece in someone else’s life.
But she spoke to me. Gently, as if testing the waters.
“You sketch too?” Her voice was soft, but there was a depth to it that made me pause.
I looked up, startled. I wasn’t used to being spoken to, at least not like this. Not like a person. Not like someone who mattered.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I had a reason to admit it. “Not really,” I said, shrugging. “Just helps me focus.”
Corinne smiled then. It was small, but it reached her eyes. “I get that,” she said.
There was something about her that made me feel like I wasn’t completely invisible. I felt this strange pull in my chest, something warm, and I hated it. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone. I wasn’t supposed to care.
But I did. I cared, more than I wanted to.
There was a long, quiet pause, the kind where the silence between two people says more than words ever could. I could feel her eyes on me, but it wasn’t judging. It wasn’t pity. It was something else. Understanding. Like she saw the parts of me that I didn’t even know how to admit.
And then, just as I was about to look away again, she spoke, softer this time.
“I’m Corinne.”
Her name hung in the air between us, as if giving me a reason to speak, to respond. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt this need to answer her. It was as if she had given me permission to let my walls down, even if just a little.
“I’m Brittany,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, and there was this flicker of something in her eyes—a recognition, maybe. Like she understood the weight of the moment. She didn’t push me. She didn’t ask more than I was ready to give. It was just enough to make me feel like I wasn’t the only broken person in the room.
For the first time since I’d gotten here, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Later That Night
