Sparky POV

The room feels wrong after he leaves.

Not louder. Not quieter. Just... emptier in a way that keeps catching me off guard. I keep expecting to hear his chair scrape the floor or his voice low beside me, saying something dumb just to break the silence. My eyes keep drifting to the door like he might come back and say he forgot something.

He doesn't.

Of course he doesn't.

He went home.

I sit where we always sat, hands folded, posture calm on the outside because that's what I've learned to do. Inside, though, everything's unsettled. Not spiraling. Just aching in a dull, unfamiliar way.

I'm happy for him. I really am. He deserved to leave. He did the work. He didn't fake it. He didn't run.

Still... it's strange being the only one our age again.

The words replay in my head whether I want them to or not.

For the record, I forgive you.

I didn't expect that. Not from him. Not from anyone.

I keep turning it over, like if I examine it enough I'll find the catch. Forgiveness always feels like something people say when they want closure, not something they give to someone like me without being asked.

But he meant it. I could tell.

And that scares me more than anger ever did.

Because forgiveness isn't loud. It doesn't demand anything. It just sits there and waits for you to decide what you're going to do with it.

I don't know what I deserve.

I do know I don't want to waste what he gave me.

The common room door opens, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Staff walk in with someone new.

A clipboard. A wristband. That slightly disoriented look people get when they're trying to pretend they're fine while everything inside them is screaming.

My stomach tightens.

I've seen that look before.

Not just here.

Somewhere else.

The kid's about my age. Maybe a little younger. Hoodie pulled up even though we're inside. His eyes flick around the room like he's mapping exits, threats, expectations—all at once.

Something clicks in my chest.

I've seen him.

Not clearly. Not enough to place him yet. But the feeling is there—sharp and insistent. Like recognizing a song you don't remember learning but know all the words to.

He glances at me for half a second, then looks away fast.

Yeah. He's seen me too.

The nurse guides him toward a chair, explaining rules in that calm, rehearsed voice. I don't listen. I'm too focused on the way his shoulders stay tense, like he's bracing for impact that hasn't come yet.

I swallow.

A few days ago, I would've stayed where I was. Kept my head down. Let staff handle it.

But Tuck's voice is still in my head. Steady. Certain.

You matter. Don't forget that.

Maybe this is what forgiveness does. Maybe it doesn't erase the past—it just gives you a chance to show up differently.

I don't move yet.

I just watch.

And when the kid finally looks up again, really looks, I nod once. Small. Non-threatening. An acknowledgment, not an invitation.

His shoulders drop a fraction.

I don't know who he is.

I don't know why he feels familiar.

But I do know this:
I'm not invisible anymore.

And for the first time since Tuck walked out that door, the room doesn't feel quite as empty as it did a moment ago.

He looks at me again.

Really looks this time.

Then, after a second that feels longer than it should, he stands and walks over. Every step is hesitant, like he's ready to turn back if I so much as breathe wrong.

He stops beside the chair.

"Hey, um... is it cool if I sit here?"

For a split second, I'm back to being someone people avoid. Someone they whisper about instead of talk to. Then I catch myself.

"Yeah," I say. "Of course."

He sits, perching on the edge of the chair like he doesn't trust it yet.

"I'm Sparky," I add, because that's what you do. You give your name so the moment doesn't collapse in on itself.

He nods. "Yeah. I know." Then, quieter, "You're the shooter, right?"

The word lands like a punch.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sudden and precise.

Shooter.

I don't say anything right away. My chest tightens, that familiar mix of shame and resignation rising up. I guess part of me always knew this would happen—that eventually I wouldn't just be a person anymore. I'd be a headline. A label people could use instead of learning my name.

"I mean..." I finally say, forcing my voice to stay even. "Yeah. A part of me was."

He flinches, like he didn't expect me to agree.

"It's cool," I add quickly. "You don't have to explain why you know that."

He swallows. "I'm Derrick," he says. "And I guess I... I killed someone too?"

That snaps my attention back to him.

"What?" I say before I can stop myself.

His hands twist together in his lap. "I was driving. Wrapped my car around a tree." His voice cracks just slightly. "My best friend didn't make it."

The room feels smaller.

"I was okay," Derrick continues, staring at the floor. "For months. I went back to school. I laughed. I told everyone I was fine." He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts. "Then my mom found me trying to hang myself."

I don't move. I don't interrupt. I just listen.

"It's hard," he says quietly. "Most days. And I... I guess now I'm here. Again."

Something shifts inside me.

Not pity. Not fear.

Recognition.

I think of Tuck. Of forgiveness given without conditions. Of how being reduced to the worst moment of your life can feel like a sentence instead of a chapter.

"I'm sorry," I say. Not reflexively. Not politely. I mean it. "About your friend. And about... all of it."

Derrick shrugs, but it's brittle. "I didn't mean to freak you out."

"You didn't," I reply. "And you're not alone in this."

He looks at me then, really looks, like he's trying to decide if I'm lying.

"You don't have to be okay all the time," I add. "Sometimes surviving is the whole job."

His shoulders drop, just a little.

"Thanks," he says. "For letting me sit here. Even after... that."

I glance at the empty chair beside me—the one Tuck used to sit in.

"Everyone deserves somewhere to sit," I say quietly.

We don't talk much after that. We don't need to.

Two kids carrying things too heavy for their age, sitting side by side in a room meant to keep us alive when we couldn't do it alone.

I don't know if Derrick will stay.

I don't know how long I will.

But for the first time since Tuck left, I understand something important.

Forgiveness didn't just change how I see myself.

It changed how I show up for the next person who sits down and says, I did something terrible too.

And this time, I don't turn away.

He hesitates before asking it, like he already knows it's a line you don't cross casually.

"Can I ask why you did it?" Derrick says quietly. "I mean... I'm just wondering what made you finally snap."

The room feels still.

I don't get angry. I don't shut down. Mostly, I feel tired—because there isn't a clean answer, and I know people always want one.

I take a breath. "I didn't wake up one day and decide to ruin everything," I say. "It wasn't one moment. It was a lot of small ones that kept stacking up."

He watches me closely, not judging. Just listening.

"I felt invisible," I continue. "Like I didn't matter unless I was doing something wrong. Like nobody saw me until I was already drowning." I pause. "And I stopped believing it would ever get better."

Derrick nods slowly. "That part... I get."

"I didn't know how to ask for help," I say. "And after a while, I convinced myself there was no help to ask for. That's where things got dangerous."

I keep my voice steady. I don't give details. I don't go there.

"I made a choice," I say plainly. "A terrible one. And I live with that. Every day."

He swallows. "Do you ever wish you could take it back?"

"Yes," I answer immediately. "More than anything."

There's a long silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy with truth.

"I don't think people snap because they're monsters," I add. "I think they snap because they run out of ways to cope—and don't see another option."

Derrick stares at his hands. "That scares me."

"It should," I say gently. "But it also means you're here now. Talking. That's not nothing."

He glances up. "Do you think... people can come back from stuff like this?"

I think of Tuck. Of forgiveness offered without excuses.

"I think people can choose what they do next," I say. "And sometimes, that's the hardest part."

Derrick lets out a shaky breath. "Thanks for answering."

"Thanks for asking without trying to turn me into a headline," I reply.

We sit there after that, side by side.

Not fixed. Not forgiven by the world.

Just two people still breathing—and choosing, for now, to stay.

The nurse approaches quietly, like she always does.

Paper cup. Water. Clipboard tucked against her side.

I take the meds without comment. No hesitation. That's another thing that's changed—taking them doesn't feel like giving up control anymore. It feels like choosing to stay.

Derrick watches me, eyes flicking to the cup, then to his own empty hands.

"You get meds too?" I ask gently, not assuming.

He shrugs. "Sometimes. Depends. They're still... figuring me out."

"That tracks," I say. No judgment. Just truth.

The nurse gives him a small, reassuring smile. "We'll check in with you shortly, Derrick."

He nods, but I can tell he's still unsure what to do with himself. Unsure where he fits yet.

Then she turns back to me.

"Sparky," she says evenly, "Dr. Saunders is ready for you."

My chest tightens—not fear, exactly. More like awareness. Sessions matter. They dig things up. They also keep me from drifting.

"Okay," I say, standing.

Derrick looks up at me, something like panic flashing across his face before he catches it. I recognize that look. It's the don't leave yet look.

"I'll be back," I tell him. "This isn't a disappearing act."

He nods, swallowing. "Yeah. Okay."

Before I follow the nurse, I hesitate, then add, "You can sit here. No one's going to make you move."

That seems to help. His shoulders drop a fraction.

I walk down the hall, footsteps echoing softly, my thoughts quieter than they used to be before sessions. Still heavy. Still complicated. But not chaotic.

Dr. Saunders' door is open.

"Come in," he says.

I take a seat across from him, hands resting on my knees, grounded.

"How are you doing today?" he asks.

I think of Tuck leaving. Of forgiveness. Of Derrick sitting down and saying I did something terrible too.

"I'm... different," I say finally. "Not better. Not worse. Just different."

Dr. Saunders nods. "That's often where real work starts."

And for once, I don't dread that.

Because when this session ends, I'll walk back into the common room.

And there will be someone there waiting—not because they need saving, but because they don't want to sit alone.

And today, that feels like enough.