Tuck pov

I wake up slow.

Not the groggy, floating kind of slow from last night—but the sharp, sinking kind, where awareness comes back piece by piece and every single one of them hurts. The padding under my hands. The quiet that's too quiet. The door with the small reinforced window.

The drugs are gone.

And without them, everything crashes in at once.

Regret hits harder than the panic ever did.

I sit up too fast and immediately regret that too, head throbbing, stomach twisting. My mouth tastes dry and wrong, like I didn't sleep so much as power down. I remember everything now. Taking the pills. Convincing myself it was fine. The transfer. The look on Dr. Saunders' face when he realized how far it had gone.

I rub my face with both hands and let out a shaky breath.

What did I do?

This feels worse than last night because now I can't hide behind the fog. I'm fully here. Fully responsible. Fully aware that I put myself back in the one place I swore I wouldn't need again.

The door opens softly.

A nurse steps in, calm and professional, like this is just another morning. Like my world didn't implode less than twelve hours ago. She gives me a small, neutral smile and holds up a medication cup and a clipboard.

"Good morning, Tuck," she says gently. "I've got your first dose."

First dose.

My stomach flips.

I look at the cup—and freeze.

There are more pills than I'm used to. Different shapes. Different colors. Not just one or two. Several. My chest tightens immediately.

"That's... more than before," I say, my voice rough.

She nods, unsurprised. "Yes. These are new. Dr. Saunders will come in shortly to go over everything with you."

I hesitate, fingers hovering before I take the cup. For a split second, panic flares—bright and ugly. The thought flashes through my head uninvited: What if this makes it worse? What if I lose myself again?

"I don't have to take them all at once, right?" I ask quietly.

"You do," she says kindly. "But we'll stay with you for a bit after. We're monitoring closely."

That word again. Monitoring. Watching. Making sure I don't screw it up.

I swallow and take the pills, one by one, forcing myself not to rush. Not to choke. Not to spiral. The water is cold and grounding, at least a little.

When she leaves, the room feels bigger. Louder in its silence.

I stare at the empty cup in my hands, shame crawling up my spine. I did this. I needed this many meds because I couldn't stop myself.

The door opens again not long after.

Dr. Saunders steps in, same calm presence, same steady energy. He pulls the chair closer and sits, eyes scanning my face—not invasive, just attentive.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asks.

"Clear," I say immediately. "Too clear."

He nods. "That's expected."

I gesture weakly toward where the nurse had been. "That was... a lot. More than I'm used to."

"Yes," he says evenly. "Because we're treating more than one thing now."

My chest tightens. "Like what?"

He leans forward slightly. "We've added a mood stabilizer to prevent the kind of escalation you experienced. A low-dose anxiolytic to help with the baseline noise—not to numb you, but to lower the volume. And a temporary sleep aid, because exhaustion makes everything worse."

Temporary. The word sticks.

"These are not forever medications," he continues, clearly anticipating my fear. "Some are short-term supports. Some may stay. That depends on how your system responds."

I look down at my hands. "What should I watch for?"

"Dizziness. Nausea. Emotional flattening—if you start feeling numb instead of regulated, I need to know immediately. Increased agitation is rare, but possible in the first forty-eight hours."

Great. Another thing to be afraid of.

"And," he adds gently, "any urge to adjust dosage on your own. That's not something you manage solo anymore."

I nod, shame burning hot in my chest. "I didn't mean to abuse them."

"I know," he says without hesitation. "But intention doesn't change impact. That's why we put safeguards in place."

I glance back at where the pills were, my throat tight. "It feels like... proof I messed up. Like I needed extra locks put on me."

Dr. Saunders' voice stays steady. "It's proof that your brain needed more support than it was getting. Nothing more."

I don't fully believe him.

But I want to.

I sink back against the padded wall, exhaustion settling in as the new meds start to hum faintly in my system. Not heavy. Not foggy. Just... present.

Regret still sits in my chest, thick and aching.

But now it's mixed with something else.

Caution. Fear. And a fragile, uncomfortable hope that maybe this time, the help won't slip through my fingers before I realize I need it.

Common room time comes right after breakfast.

I almost skip it. Almost ask to stay back. But I already spent one night boxed in, and the walls still feel too close, so I go. The room is brighter than it should be, the kind of bright that makes you feel exposed. A TV plays quietly in the corner. A few people sit scattered around, everyone pretending not to watch everyone else.

I take a seat near the wall. Somewhere out of the way.

That's when I notice him.

Sparky.

It takes a second for my brain to accept it, like my eyes are lying to me. I didn't expect to see you here. The thought hits hard enough that my chest tightens. He's standing a few feet away, not approaching, not leaving. Hovering. Like he's deciding whether this is a mistake.

I look away first.

Of course he sees me.

After a moment, I hear him clear his throat. "I, um... I didn't know you were back here."

I let out a short breath through my nose. Not a laugh. Not even close. "Yeah. Well." I shrug, staring at the floor. "Didn't exactly plan on it."

He shifts his weight, uncomfortable. Good. At least it's mutual.

"I—uh—" He stops, then tries again. "You okay?"

The question almost makes me snap.

I glance up at him, then back down. "No," I say flatly. "I screwed up."

There it is. The truth. No padding.

Sparky winces. "You don't have to—"

"I do," I cut in, not angry, just tired. "Because that's what happened."

He finally sits across from me, leaving space between us. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just... trying. I don't thank him for that. I don't owe him comfort.

There's a long stretch of silence. I can feel him watching me without staring, like he's afraid any wrong move will set something off.

"New meds?" he asks eventually, nodding toward my wristband.

I glance at it, then at the floor again. "Yeah. More than before."

His eyebrows knit together. "That... sounds rough."

"It is," I say. Honest. No edge. "Being clear again is worse than being out of it."

He nods like he doesn't quite get it but isn't going to argue. "I didn't expect to see you here," he admits quietly.

"Me neither," I reply. "Yet here we are."

Another pause. The TV murmurs in the background. Someone laughs too loudly on the other side of the room.

Sparky fidgets with his hands. "For what it's worth," he says, tentative, "I'm glad you didn't disappear."

I finally look at him then. Really look.

He's not being invasive. He's not acting like we're friends. He's just... trying to be human in a place that strips people down to their worst moments.

"Yeah," I say after a beat. "Me too."

It's not reconciliation. It's not connection.

But it's something.

And right now, sitting in this room with my head finally clear and my mistakes staring back at me, something is better than nothing.

We just sit there.

No talking. No awkward small talk. Just the low hum of the TV and the distant sounds of staff moving around. I'm aware of Sparky beside me without looking at him, the way you're aware of a weight in a room even when it's not touching you.

What's strange is how calm he is.

Not fake calm. Not the twitchy, defensive version I remember. He's still. Grounded. Like he's learned how to stay inside his own skin. I don't know when that happened, but it throws me off more than if he were pacing or rambling.

I glance at him once, quick. He's staring straight ahead, hands resting loosely on his knees. No hovering. No pressure.

Then he exhales.

Not a sigh. Just a breath, like he's making a decision.

"Can I ask you something?" he says quietly.

I don't answer right away. My first instinct is to shut down, to brace. Questions here are never harmless. But he adds, quickly, "You don't have to answer. Really. I just... I figured you and your friends talk."

That gets my attention.

I keep my eyes forward. "Ask," I say.

There's a pause. Long enough that I think he might back out.

"Do I stand a chance?" he asks finally.

The words hang there, fragile and exposed.

"I mean—" He swallows. "Will any of you forgive me?"

My chest tightens.

He rushes on before I can respond. "I know I don't deserve it. I know that. I'm not asking because I think I'm owed anything." His voice drops. "I just... I am sorry. For all of it."

That's when I look at him.

Not fully. Just enough to see that he's not looking at me anymore. His eyes are fixed on the floor, jaw tight, shoulders tense like he's braced for impact.

I don't answer right away.

Because the truth is complicated.

Because forgiveness isn't mine alone to give.

Because part of me is still angry, and another part is too tired to hold onto it the way I used to.

"You're asking the wrong person," I say eventually. My voice is steady, even though my thoughts aren't. "I don't get to decide that."

He nods once, sharp, like he expected that. Like it hurts but doesn't surprise him.

"But," I add, before I can talk myself out of it, "I'll tell you this."

He still doesn't look up.

"They don't talk about you like you're a lost cause," I say. "They talk about what happened. About the damage. About how hard it was." I pause. "But not like you're beyond redemption."

His fingers curl slightly. "That's not the same as forgiveness."

"No," I agree. "It's not."

Another stretch of silence settles between us. He finally glances at me, cautious, like he's afraid to hope.

"Forgiveness," I continue, choosing my words carefully, "takes time. And consistency. And you not asking for it before people are ready."

He nods again. Slower this time.

"I know," he says quietly. "I just... needed to ask someone who wouldn't lie to me."

I look away again, back toward the window. "Then don't stop showing you're sorry," I say. "Not with words. With what you do next."

He lets out a shaky breath. "Okay."

We don't say anything after that.

But the air feels different.

Not lighter. Just... less sharp.

And for the first time since I walked into the common room, I don't feel like I'm sitting next to a reminder of everything that went wrong.

Just another person trying to live with it.