Tuck's POV

The next few days pass slower than I want and faster than I expect.

I wake up grounded now. Not perfect. Not fearless. But steady enough that my thoughts don't immediately run away from me. The meds sit right. My body knows what to expect from them. The sharp edges that used to scrape every feeling down to the bone are dulled—not gone, but manageable.

Every morning, I tell myself the same thing.

You're not going to let Jet get to you again.

Not him. Not anyone else who thinks they can crawl inside my head and rearrange the furniture. I say it like a promise. Like a boundary I'm allowed to keep.

The staff notices the difference. The way I check in before spiraling. The way I breathe through the hard moments instead of trying to outrun them. Dr. Saunders nods more often now. Fewer long pauses. More quiet approvals.

I pray at night.

Not out loud. Not in a dramatic way. Just a steady, silent hope that I'm ready—that when the door opens, I won't be pulled backward by fear or doubt or the need to drown out noise instead of facing it.

The common room becomes familiar in a way it never was before.

Sparky and I sit together most days. Not because we have to—but because it feels natural now. We talk about nothing and everything. Music. School. How weird it is to be young in a place that makes you feel ancient. We don't compare scars. We don't compete over who's worse.

Somehow, we connect.

Real connection. The kind that doesn't need constant conversation to exist.

I'm glad for it more than I know how to say.

I came in here feeling like I'd failed—like I was broken in a way that couldn't be undone. But Sparky reminds me that people don't have to be fixed to be worthy of friendship. That two people can sit side by side in the middle of their mess and still be... okay.

We laugh sometimes. Quiet, half-suppressed laughter that feels rebellious in a place built for restraint.

"Whatever happens," Sparky says one afternoon, not looking at me, "I'm glad we met."

"Me too," I reply without hesitation. "You matter. Don't forget that."

He smiles, real and unguarded. "You either."

I don't know what happens next for him. I wish I did.

But I know this: I'm leaving here stronger than when I came in—not because the world got quieter, but because I learned how to keep my footing when it didn't.

I'm not going to let Jet—or anyone else—convince me I'm weaker than I am.

And when I walk out of here, I won't be walking alone.

Some connections stay with you, even after the doors close behind you.

And that gives me hope.

Dr. Saunders doesn't ease into it.

He waits until I'm sitting across from him, until my foot isn't bouncing and my hands are still, like he wants my body to hear it as much as my brain.

"Tuck," he says, calm as always, "you're ready to go home."

For a second, I don't breathe.

I just stare at him, like if I blink the words might disappear.

"...I am?" I ask, stupidly.

He nods. "You are. You've been consistent. You've shown insight. You've handled triggers without collapsing under them. You're not avoiding reality anymore—you're engaging with it."

Relief crashes through me so hard it almost hurts. My chest tightens, my eyes burn, and I have to look down so I don't completely fall apart in front of him.

Home.

Not someday. Not maybe. Home.

"We'll finalize discharge," he continues. "Outpatient care is set. Meds are stable. Support is in place. This isn't an ending—it's a transition."

I nod, barely hearing the rest. My heart is pounding too loud.

When I leave his office, my legs feel unsteady—not weak, just overwhelmed. I walk back to the common room on autopilot, the word home echoing in my head.

That's when it hits me.

Sparky.

He's sitting where he always sits, legs stretched out, staring at nothing in particular. When he sees my face, he knows immediately.

"You got the look," he says quietly. "That's the look."

I swallow. "Yeah."

He stands up before I even finish. "You're leaving."

"I am," I say, and it feels unreal even as I say it out loud.

He smiles—but it wobbles at the edges. "Good. You should."

There's a lump in my throat I wasn't expecting. Because suddenly I see it clearly: when I walk out, he'll still be here. The only one our age left in these rooms. The one who sat with me when I didn't want adult conversations or clinical words—just someone who understood.

"I wish—" I start, then stop. There's no sentence that finishes that thought.

He shakes his head gently. "Don't. This isn't about me missing out. This is about you making it."

I step closer. "I'm going to miss you."

He exhales, then says it quietly, like it matters: "Don't forget me, okay?"

I don't hesitate. "I won't."

We stand there for a second, the noise of the room fading into the background.

"And Sparky," I add, my voice steady even though my chest aches, "for the record... I forgive you."

He freezes.

Slowly, he looks up at me. Really looks at me.

"...You don't have to," he says.

"I know," I reply. "I want to."

Something breaks open in his expression—relief, disbelief, something like hope he didn't let himself have yet. He nods once, sharp, like if he doesn't keep it together he'll lose it.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

I pull him into a quick, firm hug before either of us can overthink it. Not dramatic. Just real.

When I step back, I feel it—the sadness, yes, but also gratitude. For him. For this place that held me when I couldn't hold myself. For the fact that I'm leaving stronger than I came in.

As I walk away, I glance back one last time.

Sparky lifts a hand.

I lift mine back.

And even though I'm finally going home, I know this part of my story mattered.

Because healing didn't just teach me how to survive.

It taught me how to forgive—and how to leave without forgetting who stood beside me when everything was quiet and hard and real.

The doors slide open, and the air feels different immediately.

Not louder. Not brighter. Just... outside. Real.

I don't even get two full steps before Ella is there.

She doesn't say my name. She doesn't slow down. She just crashes into me and wraps her arms around my chest like she's afraid if she lets go for even a second, I'll disappear again. Her grip is tight—too tight—and I don't stop her.

I hold her just as hard.

Her face is buried against my shoulder, and I can feel her shaking. Not sobbing. Just trying to breathe through everything she's been holding in. Weeks of quiet rooms and empty chairs and pretending she's fine when she wasn't.

"You're home," she says, muffled. Like she needs to hear it out loud to believe it.

"I'm home," I say back, my voice rough.

She squeezes tighter, fingers digging into the back of my hoodie, and for a second I worry she's going to break—but then I realize this is her breaking out, not down.

"I hated it without you," she whispers. "The house was wrong. Everything was wrong."

I close my eyes and rest my chin against her hair. "I know. I'm sorry."

"No," she says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at me, eyes wet and fierce. "Don't. Don't apologize for getting better."

That almost does me in.

She hugs me again, just as tight, like she's making up for lost time in one breath. I don't rush her. I don't tell her it's okay. I just stand there and let her hold me like she needs to.

For the first time in weeks, I don't feel watched. Or managed. Or measured.

I feel wanted.

When she finally loosens her grip, she wipes her face quickly and gives a shaky laugh. "Okay. Sorry. I'm done. I swear."

I smile, soft and real. "You don't have to be."

She takes my hand anyway, like it's automatic, like this is how it's supposed to be.

And as we walk away from the doors—together—I realize something important.

I didn't just leave the facility.

I came back to the place where I matter.

And this time, I'm strong enough to stay.

The car ride is quiet in that careful, fragile way—like we're all adjusting to the fact that I'm actually sitting here, seatbelt on, outside air coming through the vents.

Mom keeps glancing at me at red lights. Not staring. Just checking. Like she needs proof I'm still real.

Ella breaks the silence.

"So... um," she says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "The others were talking."

I shift slightly in my seat, already sensing where this is going, but not bracing the way I would've before.

"About spring break," she continues. "They were thinking of going camping. Like, getting out of town for a week or something."

Mom glances at her in the rearview mirror, then at me. She doesn't interrupt. She's letting Ella lead.

"They want you to come," Ella adds quickly. "But—not in a pressure way. More like... an invitation."

I stare out the window for a second, watching the familiar streets slide past. "Camping," I repeat.

"Yeah," Ella says. "Quiet. Trees. No school. No people."

That actually sounds... nice.

"But," she rushes on, "if it's too soon, that's okay. We told them it's your call."

I breathe out slowly. "I don't hate the idea."

Ella smiles, small but hopeful.

"I just want to do it the right way," I continue. "Not because I feel like I should be 'back to normal.' Just because I actually want to go."

Mom finally speaks. "We'll talk to Dr. Saunders," she says gently. "Make sure it fits your discharge plan."

I nod. "That's what I was thinking."

Ella relaxes a little, leaning back in her seat. "I just wanted you to know. No expectations."

I glance at her. "Thanks for saying it like that."

She bumps my knee with hers. "You're allowed to want things again, you know."

I smile, faint but real.

The car keeps moving, carrying us closer to home.

Camping might happen.

Or it might not.

But for the first time, the choice feels like mine.

And that's more than enough for today.