She made herself look small, staring down at her hands as she fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeve. This woman might havebeen the saddest human being I’d ever seen. Her eyes were vacant as they swept the room, carefully avoiding contact with anyone else. And her frown—it wasn’t just a simple downturn of the lips. It was a permanent fixture, a mouth that hadn’t remembered what a smile felt like.
What was her story?
The sharp scrape of chairs against the tile startled me.Here we go.The group was about to begin. I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, take this girl’s hand, and get the hell out of there.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I shook the thought. I wasn’t some guy who just fawned over women like this.
But…maybe I could be? Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Dana began her opening spiel, rattling off the usual housekeeping details. I assumed this would be like every other group—introductions, ice breakers, the works. I’d been through enough of these that I could probably run one myself, credentials or not. I still didn’t understand what made this particular group so special that it required a facilitator with extra accreditation, though.
My thoughts drifted until I noticed the girl beside me had started talking. Normally, I was good at staying tuned in, but I couldn’t help it—my head was spinning thanks to the green-eyed mystery sitting across from me. I couldn’t read her. And that threw me off.
I was usuallyexcellentat reading people. These sessions were like puzzles, and I liked figuring out the pieces—guessing their stories, piecing together what had broken them. I was often right, or at least close.
The woman beside me introduced herself as Ashley. She spoke with a kind of quiet dread, like simply using her voice was a monumental task. She was clearly uncomfortable. My guess?Shitty husband. Probably cheated. Made her feel worthless. Maybe she tried to change herself for him—be prettier, thinner, happier—but none of it worked. Cue the depression, and now here she was, sitting in a folding chair under fluorescent lights, wondering where the fuck she went wrong in life.
When she finished, her cheeks were flushed a deep pink. She glanced over at me, wide-eyed and desperate, silently pleading for me to speak next—like if I didn’t, she might actually implode right there in her seat.
I was happy to take over.
“My name’s Asher,” I announced with confidence. “I’m here today to hopefully accept new perspectives into my life, since I think sometimes I can be narrow-minded. And an activity I enjoy would be hockey. In fact, I love hockey.”
Understatement of the year, Asher.
I looked around the group, holding my confident front even as it became glaringly obvious that no one was actually listening. That was the nature of these groups. Half the room tuned out until the walls came down and people started feeling comfortable enough to show up as themselves.
As I scanned the circle, her eyes caught mine.
She was listening.
The moment our eyes locked, she looked away, retreating back into the safety of her hands. The curiosity that stirred in me was more than just interest—it felt like hunger. Ineededto know what was going on inside her head.
I didn’t bother with the usual hand-off or nod for the next person to speak. I just sat back and let it happen, already slipping into disinterest as the next person started. My focus had shifted entirely.
Toher.
Her hair was a beautiful kind of chaos—long, bleach-blonde strands that framed her face like a curtain she could hide behind.She sat still, detached, like she wanted nothing more than to disappear into her chair.
Then something shifted. Her face tensed. Her breathing looked…controlled, like she was trying to find rhythm in the storm.Was she having a panic attack?
These groups were never designed with panic in mind. They were all about pressure—talk, share, emote. As if recreating your worst-case scenario in a room full of strangers was somehow therapeutic. Or at least, that’s how my mother explained it.
Maybe mystery girl struggles with social anxiety.
It was her turn for introductions now, but she had no idea. She was deep inside whatever was happening in her body, she didn’t see all the eyes now locked onto her.
No one moved. No one stepped in.
She opened her eyes—and froze.
The realization hit her like a slap, and just like that, she started coughing. Her body doubled forward, clenched into a fist she pressed against her mouth, trying to shield herself from the room that had suddenly become a stage.
No one was helping her.
I stood up immediately and moved toward her. I wasn’t about to let her face this embarrassment alone. She was already struggling, and now she was choking on her own thoughts. Just two or three steps, and I was crouching in front of her, offering a soft smile and holding her gaze. I wanted her to know I was here, right here, right now. Maybe no one had been there for her before. Maybe that’s why she carried that fierce independence—seemed fitting.
