I woke up to the sound of birds and a pounding in my head, like someone had cracked my skull open with a bat.
The rehab center was clean and quiet, but nothing about it felt peaceful. It was more like being trapped in a glass box, forced to watch your worst thoughts on repeat with no way to turn the volume down.
I sat up slowly, brushing my hair from my face, and looked around the pale beige room they’d assigned me. The air smelled like a mix of fresh laundry and antiseptic—too sterile to feel comforting. On the dresser, a small vase of flowers—probably from my mother—sat slightly wilted beside the untouched journal they kept telling me to write in every night.
I hadn’t opened it.
I didn’t see the point of pouring out my pain just for someone else to skim through and nod, like that mad
