How quiet Brett's home was. 

The sounds he was accustomed to--the skittering of his dog's nails on the kitchen tile, the soft gibberish from the television (which his therapist suggested he get rid of) floating from the living room--all of that was gone.

He was left with his own thoughts. 

The open expanse of his mind was like a field that he was prepared to run through, although he was a little timid, given his experiences at the hospital. When given free reign of his own thoughts, they had the potential to disturb him, but his last dalliance with the drug left him feeling comforted that he could control it if he really exerted the effort. 

He carried his bag to his room and lay it on his bed. It was only a paper grocery bag that held the clothes he had been wearing when he jumped into the lake, his ruined cell phone, and his discharge paperwork. 

And one other thing. 

It was a post-it note that he'd found behind his door when he was cleaning his hospital room one final time. Scribbled on it was an email address, one that he believed belonged to Lauren, given the initials at the beginning. [email protected]. She'd been discharged the day before him, and his stomach had dropped when he found that she had gone. But it wasn't without a trace; she'd left one breadcrumb to find her in the real world, should he ever feel the need. 

He didn't right now, feel the need, but it was nice to have a link to her, just in case. After all, who else had been through the same experience, the same mining of his thoughts and feelings in pursuit of some kind of sanity? He thought he may reach out when he'd found a more stable foothold in his life, but maybe not. 

Maybe some people were meant to share one point in their lives, help each other grow, and then let go. It was kind of beautiful, really. He wasn't sure yet.

That night, he tried everything he knew to get to sleep--drank some hot tea, practiced his breathing exercises, counted (only this time white mice, not sheep), but his mind would not shut down. He kept flashing back to those surreal trips on ketamine in the hospital, wondering what they all meant, what each element signified. Finally, out of frustration, he shrugged on a sweatshirt and jammed his feet into his sneakers, intending to get some fresh air. 

Checking his phone, he saw that it was nearly three in the morning, and he expected to have the front sidewalk to himself. At first he thought he was, but then he saw something move in the corner of his eyesight. He told himself it was just the aftermath of the drug messing with his mind, but after a moment, a figure emerged from the shadows. 

He'd seen her before his hospitalization. She lived on the floor above him and drove a white Toyota. She always left and came back in the same black pants and a red polo shirt. He thought she probably worked someplace like Target. Tonight she was wearing fuzzy pajama bottoms and a thick grey cardigan wrapped tightly around her. She let out a breath of smoke, and then lifted a cigarette to her lips. The cherry burned brightly for an instant and smoldered when she'd finished inhaling. 

"Oh, hi," he said in what he hoped was a pleasant, non-threatening tone. "You startled me."

"Sorry," she muttered through the smoke. 

"It's fine," he replied with an attempt at a chuckle and then winced inwardly. "Can't sleep?"

She appraised him with one arched eyebrow. After a few uncomfortable seconds, she responded. "Not can't. Won't. Nightmares."

They had that in common. Although hers seemed to be of the sleeping variety, his every waking hour seemed to be a nightmare until that last session. He couldn't think of what to say next. Unlike Lauren, who was willing and ready to fill in the gaps of any conversation, talking to this girl was like pulling teeth. Ones that weren't meant to be pulled, ones with healthy, strong roots. His therapist would call them boundaries, he supposed. Still, he felt the need to be polite.

"I'm Brett. I live downstairs."

"I know."

"Well, uh, what's your name?"

She took a long drag off her cigarette. Leisurely, she let the smoke out, and it rose it a long, curly wisp toward the sky. "Calista."

Brett nodded. "Nice to meet you." Even though it didn't feel very nice, not at all. "I'll leave you to it then." He turned back toward the building. 

Just before he went inside, her words floated after him. "Sweet dreams."