Tuck POV

Dr. Saunders always smells like peppermint and coffee.
It's weird the things you notice when you've been stuck in the same place long enough — the way the sunlight hits the blinds around noon, the sound of shoes squeaking down the hall, the scent of the only doctor who never gives up on you.

He's sitting across from me now, his glasses low on his nose as he flips through my chart. There's a red line where my name sits, bold and underlined. I've seen that line too many times.
"Well," he says finally, looking up. "How do you feel about going home?"

It's a simple question, but my throat tightens anyway.
I want to say excited. I want to say ready. But the truth is... I don't really know.
So instead I shrug. "Guess we'll find out."

He hums softly — that little thoughtful sound he makes when he's trying not to tell me I'm being too vague.
"Fair enough," he says. "You've made progress, Tuck. Real progress. But it's going to take structure, okay? Routine. No skipping doses, no late nights, and no trying to do this alone."

I nod, staring at the carpet between us. "I know."

He folds his hands. "Your mom's agreed to handle your medication schedule. She'll keep the bottles and give them to you as prescribed — morning and night. You'll mark them off on the chart I gave you."

"Like I'm six," I mutter before I can stop myself.

He smiles a little. "No, like you're someone trying to build trust again — with yourself, mostly."
That stings because he's right. I've been here longer than I planned. I messed up more than once. But I'm still here. That has to count for something, right?

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You have to take it one day at a time, Tuck. You've got school coming up in September, and you'll need a rhythm before then. Sleep, meals, meds, classes — consistency is your friend."

I force out a quiet laugh. "That sounds... boring."

"Good," he says with a grin. "Boring is stable."

Dr. Saunders signs the last of the papers and slides them across the desk toward me. The sound of the pen clicking shut echoes too loud in the quiet room.

"That's it," he says, leaning back. "You've worked hard, Tuck. You've earned this step. But remember what we talked about — progress doesn't mean perfection. If it gets hard again, you reach out. You don't wait."

"I know," I say. My voice comes out rough, a little too small for how big this moment feels.

He nods once, then gives me that look — the one that's half professional and half something like pride. "Your mom's waiting in the lobby. She's been there since sunrise."

"Yeah, that sounds like her," I mumble, standing up.

He smiles faintly, then glances toward the door. "Someone else wanted to see you off, too."

Before I can ask who, the door creaks open. Liberty steps in.

Her hair's pulled into a loose braid, hospital volunteer badge still clipped to her hoodie. She looks unsure for the first time since I've known her — eyes flicking from me to her dad and back again.

Dr. Saunders clears his throat and stands. "I'll give you two a minute."
When he leaves, the air changes. Softer. Heavier.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," I say quietly.

She shrugs. "Yeah, well... I didn't think you'd actually leave."
She tries to smile, but it doesn't stick.

I take a step closer, holding the strap of my bag just to keep my hands busy. "Guess we were both wrong."

Her laugh is small, nervous. "So that's it? You're just... gone? Back to the world?"

"Back to trying," I say. "I don't know if I'm ready for the world yet."

"You'll get there." She hesitates, then asks the question I knew was coming. "What about us?"

It's not demanding, not pushy — just soft. Scared.
The kind of question that deserves more than I know how to give right now.

I swallow hard. "Liberty..."
She shakes her head before I can finish. "Don't. I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?"

"That you're not ready. That you need time. That you don't want to hurt me."
Her voice breaks, and I hate that she's right. Because I feel everything she's saying — the way she's been there for me, the nights she sat with me in the courtyard when the noise got too loud, the way she made me feel human again when I didn't think I was.

"I care about you," I tell her, quiet but steady. "More than I should probably admit right now. But I need to get my head straight before I can be anything for anyone. You deserve better than halfway."

She nods, looking down at her shoes. "I don't care about perfect, Tuck. I just don't want you to disappear."

"I won't."
And I mean it. Even if I don't know how to prove it yet.

For a second, she just stands there — then she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. I breathe her in — clean soap, faint vanilla, the smell that's carried me through too many dark nights.
She whispers against my chest, "Promise you'll text me when you get home?"

"Yeah." My voice cracks. "Promise."

When she pulls back, her eyes are red, but she's smiling again — that soft, hopeful kind that hurts to look at.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Then go. Before I change my mind and make you stay."

I manage a small smile. "Not sure they'd let me."

"Maybe I'd make them."

I laugh under my breath, then turn before I can lose my nerve. My mom's waiting at the front doors, pretending not to stare through the glass.

The sun outside is sharp and white, blinding after months of fluorescent light. My chest feels heavy as I walk toward her, Liberty's scent still clinging to my sleeve.

Mom's eyes fill the second she sees me. "Hey, baby," she says softly, reaching out. "You ready to go home?"

I look back once — just once — to see Liberty still standing in the doorway. She lifts a hand in a small wave.
I lift mine too. Then I step out into the light.

The world feels too big. Too open. Every tree, every passing car, every sound feels sharper than it should. Mom keeps glancing over at me like she's afraid to blink.

"You okay?" she asks quietly.

I nod. "Yeah. Just... adjusting."

She smiles a little, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Ella's home. She's been cleaning your room every day like you'd come back any minute."

That makes my throat tighten. "Yeah," I whisper. "I can't wait to see her."

The rest of the drive passes in silence — the kind that feels both peaceful and terrifying. I don't know how to be out here again. But I know I have to try.

When we finally pull into the driveway, the front door bursts open and Ella flies down the steps, tears already spilling down her cheeks.

"Tuck!" she shouts, voice cracking as she collides with me. "You're home!"

I drop my bag and hug her tight, eyes stinging. "Yeah," I breathe. "I'm home."

The front door clicks shut behind me, and for a second, I just stand there.

It smells the same — lemon cleaner, laundry soap, a faint trace of brownies that Ella must've made hours ago. The walls haven't changed, but I have. It's weird how home can look exactly the same and still feel foreign.

Ella's a blur, moving from the kitchen to the hall and back again, talking too fast about everything I've missed — school gossip, summer plans, some new show she swears I'll like. Her voice fills the quiet space in a way that makes me want to sit down and cry, but I smile instead.

"You okay?" she asks finally, catching her breath.

"Yeah," I lie. "Just tired."

She nods, chewing her lip like she's trying not to say something else. "I made your bed. Fresh sheets. And, um—" She glances down the hall. "I left something on your desk."

My chest tightens. "Thanks, El."

When I walk into my room, it's spotless. Everything lined up perfectly, even the books I never finished reading. There's a faint hum from the ceiling fan, and dust motes dance in the sunlight.

On my desk sits a small folded note and a new sketchbook. The note's written in her messy scrawl:

You're home now. Don't run from it. I missed you.
—E

I sit down on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath me. My hands tremble a little as I trace the edge of the paper.

Home.
The word feels both too big and not big enough.

The clock on the wall ticks loud in the silence. I know Mom's in the kitchen pretending not to hover, and Ella's probably pacing in the hallway. But for once, it's just me. No staff checks, no roommates, no controlled routine.

It should feel like freedom. Instead, it feels like learning how to breathe again.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling for a while, until the noise in my head quiets enough to think straight. Then I reach for my phone. There's one unread message — Liberty's name lighting up the screen.

Liberty: Made it home okay?

I stare at it for a few seconds before typing.
Me: Yeah. It's weird being back. Feels... heavy but good.

Her reply comes fast.
Liberty: Heavy means you care. Good means you're healing.

I smile faintly. She always knows what to say.

Me: You coming back to school this year?

A pause. Then:
Liberty: Yeah. Dad's letting me transfer for the fall. Why?

I hesitate before typing, fingers hovering over the keys. Then I just tell the truth.
Me: I want you there.

The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then appear again.
Liberty: You sure about that? Being around me again, all the reminders...

Me: Yeah. I'm sure.

Another pause. Then her reply flashes across the screen.
Liberty: Then I'll be there.

I set the phone down beside me, a quiet ache settling in my chest. For the first time since I got home, I let myself imagine what it might feel like to see her outside those walls — in a hallway, in class, under real sunlight instead of the facility's fake kind.

Maybe it'll be weird. Maybe it'll hurt.
But maybe it'll be something.

I reach over, switch off the lamp, and let the dark wrap around me. For once, it doesn't feel like it's swallowing me whole.
It feels like rest.

Dinner feels... normal.
Or at least it's supposed to.

Mom made spaghetti — my favorite — like she's trying to remind me that things can still taste good. Ella won't stop talking, filling every gap in the conversation because she hates silence almost as much as I do. She tells me about her new art class, how she's trying to convince Mom to let her dye the ends of her hair pink before school starts.

It's weird — just sitting here again, fork in hand, pretending that everything's fine. The clinking of silverware, the smell of sauce, the faint hum of the fridge — it's all so loud after months of structured quiet.

Mom keeps sneaking glances at me, that half-worried, half-relieved look she's mastered. Every time she does, I focus harder on twirling pasta around my fork, pretending not to notice.

When I push my plate away, she stands. "All right," she says, voice too steady to be casual. "Meds."

I groan quietly. "Already?"

"It's eight-thirty, Tuck."

"I know what time it is."

Her expression doesn't change. "Then you know the schedule. We're sticking to it."

There's no room for argument — not tonight. She pulls the pill organizer from the counter, opens the compartment marked PM, and sets the two capsules beside a glass of water.

I stare at them longer than I should.

Before I went in, the old ones didn't do much. I could take them and still lie awake until two in the morning, my mind running circles until I thought it might break me again.
Dr. Saunders changed that. "A stronger dose," he said, "something to quiet things faster."

He wasn't wrong. I take them, swallow the water, and it's like a slow fog already starting to creep in behind my eyes.

Ella watches me from across the table, chin propped in her hand. "You hate that part, huh?"

"Yeah," I admit. "Makes me feel like I'm falling asleep before I even want to."

She shrugs. "At least it means you'll actually sleep."

She's right. I just hate needing help to do something everyone else seems to manage on their own.

Mom gives me a small, tired smile. "You'll get used to it again. It's just your body adjusting."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Adjusting."

After dinner, I sit on my bed, phone in hand. My eyes feel heavy already. I scroll through old messages until I find Liberty's name again. My thumb hovers before I type:

Me: Took my meds. Dr. Saunders upped the dose. Gonna be out in like ten minutes.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Liberty: Told you he would. You used to fight sleep like it was a competition.

Me: Still do.

Liberty: Try to rest anyway. Tomorrow's a new day. You can handle it.

I stare at the screen until the words blur. Then I type one last thing before the fog fully settles in.
Me: Promise you'll text me tomorrow?

Liberty: You don't even have to ask.

My phone slips from my hand onto the comforter. The edges of the room start to fade, the ceiling fan spinning into soft shapes.

For the first time since I came home, I don't dream about the facility. I just drift — slow and heavy — into something that feels almost like peace.