Lennon:Perfect. See you then.
Looking at the time on my phone, I realized I didn’t have much longer to wait—just another hour. I could wait another hour. I didn’t need it that badly. Right?
It was just to help me feel numb. To get rid of the bad thoughts that circled endlessly in my mind. The drugs helped ease the weight I’d been carrying my whole life.
Just a little bit.
They made it just a little bit lighter.
Lying across my couch, the thought surfaced again—I only had to wait through the weekend before attending the group. That alone should’ve been a relief, but instead it had me on edge. I’d be sitting in a room full of people. People I was expected to talk in front of and share with.
What did this group even discuss, if not the fact that most of us probably wanted to fucking end it? And what kind of tasks were we supposed to complete? Those questions hadn’t been answered in the email Rachel sent—at least not that I could tell. Granted, there had been a surplus of information, just nothing that said anything about specific assignments.
My body tensed when a new thought hit me: what if we had to do group work? Fuck. That would be harder than it needed to be. I couldn’t be paired with one of those fucking losers. I hated people. I hated everyone. I hated the people running in the fucking streets, I hated happy people, I hated sad people. I hated them all.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and felt the tension radiating through my bones. This was going to be a mountain to climb if it involved group work, open discussion, or anything requiring actual interaction. Ugh.
I’d assess the first day, then go from there.
Could I get over the fear of offing myself and being found? Could I just fucking do it—and not care who discovered me or what they’d do with my corpse? Why did I care so fucking much? It’s not like even if there was a heaven, I’d be in it watching from above. I’d be rotting, burning in fucking hell.
As I lay there on the couch, my body started to drift into slumber, exhausted from all the mental noise—the unknown of what was coming Monday churning through me.
Just as I started slipping in and out of consciousness, the doorbell rang.
Jase was here.
Asher
Cold hands shoved me back and forth until I stirred awake. Opening my eyes, I groaned when I saw my mother.
“What on Earth do you want?” I croaked.
“Wake up!” she said excitedly, still shaking me like I was a snow globe.
Groaning, I rolled away from her. “Whyyy?” I whined, slipping right back into my high school tone.
“The group I was telling you about has an opening! You got into it. You start next week!” Her excitement was not something I could reciprocate.
Over the past couple of years since my diagnosis, she’d been trying to sign me up for groups meant to help others shift their perspectives and frame of mind. She believed that because I’d carried on living life as normally and healthily as possible, it had somehow prolonged my life. I was skeptical—but who knew?
I had attended a few groups before, but this one was the longest she had ever wanted me to commit to. This group, she’d said, was full of people with deep mental health challenges. And honestly, every time I joined something like this, I felt like an imposter.
My mother—head of the social work department at the hospital—never thought this was an issue. She always welcomed different perspectives in her group projects, believing that morevariety led to better outcomes. I hadn’t really seen that yet—probably because I was always the polar opposite of the other members. Generally, I was the happy, optimistic, always-looking-for-the-silver-lining type.
But I’d decided I couldn’t keep ignoring the grey skies anymore. I needed to breathe.
Sometimes, my optimism was annoying—maybe even insufferable—to those around me, but it was what kept me going. So here I was: attending groups, trying to help however I could. School was out of the question. It felt wrong to take a spot from someone who could actually go far with a career in veterinary medicine. I wanted it, yes, but the application process was tough—and let’s face it: I probably wouldn’t be a great long-term candidate.
“Thanks, Mom, for signing me up. I know this one means a lot to you,” I said reluctantly, fully aware of the commitment it required. Twelve weeks. Twice a week.
“Damn right, it means a lot to me—this one’s my brainchild!” she said, clearly delighted I wasn’t arguing with her. “It took me almost three years to get it up and running. The funding alone took two. Luckily, it’s successful—or I’d be on the shit list at work.”
I rolled my eyes. “I highly doubt you’d ever be on anyone’s shit list, Mom. Aren’t you the boss?”
She shrugged, brushing the comment off. “Yeah, but I have a board to report to. They like numbers—so I give them numbers.”
She patted my shoulder and told me to come down for breakfast, adding that Wyatt was over before heading to work.
