The following morning took on a grim new routine. Before the first class, Bassam would wordlessly gather his things and leave for his mandatory therapy session. He always returned just before the bell rang, his mood visibly darker, his shoulders more hunched than when he’d left. The sessions seemed to drain him, not help him.
One such morning, Zaid watched him slump at his desk, burying his head in his arms. A hollow feeling of helplessness settled in Zaid’s stomach. He didn’t know what to say or do. Reaching out the day before had only pushed Bassam further away.
Then, an idea sparked. If he couldn't get through to Bassam directly, maybe he could understand what he was going through. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. He searched for everything he could find:
