Tuck pov

The light looks different now.

I don't notice it all at once—it sneaks up on me. The mornings aren't so heavy anymore. The windows catch the sun in a way that feels almost warm instead of distant. Someone mentions spring coming and, for the first time, it doesn't feel like a rumor meant for other people.

I've been here a few weeks.

Long enough that the meds don't feel like an enemy anymore. Long enough that my hands don't shake when I wake up. Long enough that my thoughts line up instead of crashing into each other. The bad days still show up, but they don't take over the room when they walk in.

I'm... steadier.

I can feel it in my body. In the way my breathing doesn't hitch all the time. In the way I can sit with a feeling without immediately needing to escape it.

And I want to leave.

Not in a reckless way. Not in the get me out of here right now way I felt before. This is different. Quieter. More grounded.

I feel stronger.

I still go to groups. Still take my meds. Still check in when something feels off. But I don't feel like I'm constantly fighting myself anymore. It feels like I've built something solid enough to stand on.

The common room feels smaller now—not suffocating, just... temporary. Sparky and I still sit together sometimes. Not best friends. Not bonded. Just two people who got through something side by side. That matters more than I expected.

I think about Liberty more now—not with that aching desperation, but with something steadier. Hopeful. Like I want to see her because I'm ready to show up as myself again, not because I need her to hold me together.

When Dr. Saunders asks how I'm feeling, I don't hesitate.

"I think I'm ready," I say.

"Ready for what?" he asks.

"To leave," I answer. "Not because I'm done struggling. But because I know what to do when it shows up."

He studies me for a long moment.

I don't rush it. I've learned not to.

"I feel stronger," I add quietly. "Not fixed. Just... capable."

Dr. Saunders nods slowly. "That's the right reason."

I look out the window again. The trees are starting to bud. The air smells different when the doors open.

Spring is coming.

And for the first time since I walked back into this place, I don't feel like I'm being released back into chaos.

I feel like I'm stepping forward.

"So... do you think I could?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "I mean—you're the one who decides."

Dr. Saunders doesn't answer immediately. He leans back slightly, folding his hands, not in a way that shuts me down but in a way that tells me this matters.

"That depends," he says calmly. "The reason you came in here, Tuck, is because you let the outside world get to you."

The words sting, even though I know he's not wrong.

I nod slowly. "I know."

"You weren't overwhelmed by nothing," he continues. "You were overwhelmed by pressure. By voices that weren't yours. By trying to carry things without enough internal buffering."

I swallow. "I don't think I'm immune now."

"Good," he says immediately. "Because that would worry me."

I glance up at him.

"What I'm looking for," Dr. Saunders goes on, "isn't that the outside world stops affecting you. It won't. What I'm looking for is whether you can notice when it's getting loud again—and respond before it takes control."

I shift forward slightly. "I can feel it sooner now. The signs. The speeding up. The urge to drown it out instead of talk about it."

"And what do you do when you feel that?" he asks.

"I stop," I say. "I tell someone. I slow things down instead of pushing harder. I don't isolate."

He nods. "That's different than before."

"I don't want to leave and pretend I'm 'better,'" I add. "I want to leave knowing I still have work to do—and that I know how to do it."

Dr. Saunders studies me for a long moment. It's quiet, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels like being weighed honestly.

"You're right," he says finally. "I do make the recommendation."

My chest tightens.

"And right now," he continues, "you're showing insight, consistency, and restraint. Those are the three things that were missing when you came in."

I let out a slow breath.

"But," he adds gently, "discharge doesn't mean the outside world stops being dangerous. It means we build a plan so it doesn't knock you over again."

I nod. "I want that."

"That includes boundaries," he says. "Support that isn't singular. A way to deal with people who know how to get under your skin."

I think of Jet. Of Liberty. Of the quiet lessons this place forced me to learn.

"I'm ready to try," I say. "With support. Not instead of it."

Dr. Saunders gives a small, approving nod. "Then we start talking about next steps."

Hope flickers in my chest—not wild, not reckless.

Careful.

Earned.

And for the first time, the door in my head doesn't feel locked.

It feels like it might open—slowly, safely—when the time is right.

"Okay," I say, trying not to lean too far forward. "Are we talking days? Weeks?"

Dr. Saunders' gaze sharpens—not harsh, just firm. "Tuck, don't push it."

I nod immediately and sit back, hands flat on my knees. He's right. I can feel that old edge in myself, the part that wants certainty now.

"This isn't about counting down," he continues. "It's about watching how you hold steady when the idea of leaving is introduced."

I swallow. "I'm not trying to rush. I just... want to know where I stand."

"And that's fair," he says. "So here's where you stand."

He shifts slightly, more concrete now.

"We're not talking weeks," he says. Relief flickers in my chest before he finishes. "But we're also not talking tomorrow."

I exhale slowly.

"Think days," he continues, "measured in stability. If the next few days look like the last few—regulated mood, honest check-ins, no impulsive behavior—then we move toward discharge planning."

"Planning," I repeat.

"Yes," he says. "Which includes outpatient support, medication follow-ups, school coordination, and reintroducing contact with the people who matter to you."

My chest tightens at that last part. "Liberty?"

He nods. "Yes. Carefully."

I manage a small smile.

"But," he adds, "if you start pushing, white-knuckling, or trying to prove something instead of staying present—that timeline stretches."

"I hear you," I say quickly. And I mean it.

Dr. Saunders watches me for a second, then nods. "Good. Then for now, your job is simple."

"Stay steady," I say.

"Exactly," he replies.

As he stands to leave, the quiet settles in again—but it's different now. Not empty.

Intentional.

Days.

Not freedom yet.

But close enough to taste.

And this time, I'm not running toward it.

I'm walking.

The common room feels softer lately.

Same chairs. Same windows. Same low hum of voices and footsteps. But something in me has shifted, like I'm no longer bracing for impact every second I'm in here. I spot Sparky right away—same corner, legs stretched out, hands folded like he's waiting for time to pass.

When he sees me, he smiles.

Not big. Not forced. Just real.

"Hey," he says. "Heard you might be getting out soon."

I stop short. "You did?"

He nods, eyes warm but a little distant. "Staff talk. Not details. Just... vibes."

I sit beside him, the familiar chair creaking under my weight. "Yeah," I admit quietly. "Soon. A few days, maybe."

He's quiet for a second. Then he exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half something else.

"Good," he says. "You should."

There's no bitterness in his voice. That almost makes it worse.

I glance at him. "What about you?"

He shrugs, shoulders lifting and falling like it doesn't matter. Like he's already made peace with the answer. "Me? I'll never get to."

My chest tightens. "Sparky—"

He holds up a hand, still smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. "It's okay. I know how this looks. Short stay. Crisis. You've got people waiting on the outside." He taps his temple lightly. "I've got... history."

I don't like that word. The way he says it like it's a life sentence.

"That doesn't mean never," I say.

He snorts softly. "You're optimistic."

"No," I reply. "I'm realistic. I've watched people leave who swore they wouldn't. I almost convinced myself I couldn't either."

He studies me for a long moment. "You're different now."

I nod. "So are you."

That catches him off guard. His smile falters, just a bit.

"You're calmer," I continue. "You sit with things instead of fighting them. That counts. Even if no one's said it out loud yet."

He looks away, jaw tightening. "Doesn't feel like it counts."

I lean back in my chair, the words coming slower, more careful. "When I leave... it's not because I'm cured. It's because I learned how to ask for help before everything explodes. You're doing that too. Just differently."

He's quiet again. The TV murmurs in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks shut.

"I'm glad you're getting out," Sparky says finally. "Really."

I swallow. "I'm glad I met you."

He smiles then. A real one this time. "Don't forget us when you're back out there."

"I won't," I say without hesitation. "And I won't forget you."

We sit there a while longer. No rush. No pressure.

And for the first time since I started thinking about leaving, I realize something important.

Getting out doesn't mean leaving everything behind.

Some people stay with you—quietly, solidly—even after the doors open.