(This story explores mental collapse and distorted self-perception. It's fiction, not advocacy.)
DAVIN
I don't get it.
I'm sitting in a rehab circle — ten chairs, one counselor, nine strangers.
We're united under one banner: Survivor's.
The only words to sugar coat : Attempted suicide
The woman beside me crying into a tissue like she's being baptized by her own misery. Her wrists say more than her mouth ever could — pale lines, shaky hands, a history that didn't quite finish. She talks about not being loved enough. The others nod, perform empathy. Someone across from her reads from a crumpled sheet about "rebuilding." The therapist hums along, like a priest guiding a dying congregation.
Healing, he calls it.
He's getting paid to care. The rest are just here trying to convince themselves it's worth it.
They tell us to share. To open up.
I don't , i say a lot but none of it carries any meaning.
Guess self-awareness doesn't play well in rooms that requires ignorance.
I made my choice clean — no breadcrumb trail, no hidden cry for help. I just miscalculated. Turns out the human body clings harder than the human spirit. It refuses to quit.
Now I'm trapped here.
Drowning in kindness.
Forced empathy, synthetic warmth — like being hugged through glass.
They hand me concern in measured doses, as if compassion's a prescription.
What am I supposed to say? "Thank you for pretending I matter"?
I used to be low maintenance — the "you'll be fine" kind. The one who smiled through collapses. And now they look at me like I'm some rare exhibit — the survivor.
They don't understand that I didn't survive. I'm it's still deciding whether to keep pretending.
The therapist calls my name again, his voice soft, practiced. "Progress, Davin. You've made real progress."
Progress.
That word again.
As if I'm climbing back to some sacred place called "normal."
What if normal is the problem?
I almost laugh. Almost. But my skull's starting to pound — the migraine that comes from forcing tears I don't feel.
My turn ends. They clap. The kind that means keep going, but it just sounds like irritating noise.
Finally.
I stand, make for the door — three steps from peace —
"Everyone "
I pretend not to hear the call.
"Davin you too."
Dr. Jenna. Of course, the only one who would use my name so casually. Clipboard in hand, smile sharpened by years of polite manipulation. Beside her stands someone new — young, bright-eyed, carrying a binder too large for her arms. A guest speaker, probably. Another savior here to "share hope."
An ambush dressed as empathy.
I stop. Breathe through the ache. "Hello, Miss Jenna." My tone's whimpering by design. Six months of this routine, what's a couple more minute's.
"Do have a seat," she says.
Shit.
I sit. The metal legs scrape against the floor — a protest I wish I could echo.
She folds her hands. "I'd like you to meet someone."
Of course she would.
The girl steps forward, smiling too wide. "Hi. I'm Liora. I used to sit right where you are."
Used to. Meaning she survived, recovered, maybe even found purpose.
I look at her — at the polished confidence, the practiced vulnerability — and all I can think is:
How much pretending does it take before the mask becomes your face?
She starts talking. About hope. About rediscovery. About how pain isn't the end but a doorway. The kind of speech that fits perfectly on pamphlets and motivational videos.
Her words drip like honey, but all I taste is ash, after all were divided, the type of divide set upon us by birth, our experiences could never be the same.
When she finishes, everyone claps again. She smiles, grateful. I stay silent.
Dr. Jenna looks at me. "What are you thinking of, Davin?"
I meet her eyes.
"Vanity."
the words escaped me. the first time I said something I hadn't designed as something they wanted to hear.
She blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"Vanity," I muttered.
Shut the fuck up, my consciousness snapped back.
One more week and we'll be back in society, it reminded me — like freedom was waiting out there, patient and clean.
But I was done pretending.Pretending I didn't notice the disgust in their eyes.Pretending I couldn't hear the whispers when they thought I was too broken to care.
They looked at me like I'd cracked some unspoken rule — that you're supposed to suffer quietly, gracefully, not make a scene about wanting out.
"That's what this all is, isn't it? Dressing wounds with words. Pretending it's healing when everyone here knows they'll still stare down that same tunnel tonight, trying to convince themselves to say away from the light. just because I survived doesnt mean I'm suddenly worth something, and that's a hard pill to sallow. No one wants to admit survival doesn't equal recovery. That sometimes, living is just dying slower. And maybe that's why I hate this room — not because they're wrong, but because they believe they're right. Because part of me wants to believe it too. I just can't anymore."
The air turns heavier. Even the clock seems to hesitate.
Silence.
She writes something down on her clipboard. Probably another note about 'emotional distancing' or 'cynical projection.'
The sight just bugged me and i couldn't remain seated. I stormed out.
"Davin !"
Her voice echoed as I slammed the door behind me.
It's dark out, but the city never sleeps. It hums — endless, mechanical, stupidly alive. People rushing to be somewhere, to do something, to mean something.
All ants worshipping purpose.
I plug in my earphones and keep walking until the sidewalks turn to silence and the buildings start to thin. The streetlights fade behind me. The skyline ahead looks like teeth biting through the clouds.
I find the building without really choosing it. Fifty stories, maybe more.
I take the stairs. Each floor hums with life behind closed doors — laughter, arguments, TV static — all those fragile sounds.
By the time I reach the roof, my legs ache but my head's clear.
The city stretches beneath me — blinking lights, cold wind, everything I used to call real. At this point I couldn't remember the last time I felt something anything even fear would suffice -nothing-
I sit at the edge. Look down.
This time, the canal below waits — dark, deep, indifferent. The kind of place that swallows what it's given without leaving ripples.
If the fall wouldn't the cold would. This would have been a terrifying thought a year ago, how much has happened in such a short time.
At this point I'm just tired.
I stand, take a slow breath, and step forward.
No cinematic pause. No final thought. Just motion — clean, quiet, certain.
The air claws at my face. The wind screams past my ears. The city blurs into streaks of silver and blue.
The water rushes up to meet me. Then— nothing.
Quiet, peace ? the consciousness came rushing in, i could feel my arms again, legs torso air rushing into my lungs again. The weight of my eye lids lifting like a curtain in a cinema .
An endlessly starry sky
"This must be a sick joke."
"Its not" a voice replied behind me "on the contrary its quite serious... Davin"