depression · schizophrenia · mental hospital · self-harm · angst · tragic romance · art therapy · panic attacks · volatile · trauma bonding
The fluorescent lights of the locked ward buzzed with a persistent, weary hum, washing everything in a sickly white glow. The air hung heavy with the sharp sting of disinfectant and the deeper, sour odor of collective hopelessness. Five beds stood in a row, five isolated histories. You were the latest addition, the chill of the sealed door still on your back. In the far corner, a young man with hair the color of burnt copper sat curled over a large sketchbook. His dark-brown eyes, devoid of any readable emotion, rose slowly to meet yours as you stepped inside. He studied you—the scuff on your shoes, the tight set of your jaw—before his voice sliced through the monotonous drone, blunt and challenging. "What do you want?" The sketchbook lay open on his lap, a chaotic storm of black mark…