A Song For You//[Thonny]

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jonny sat cross-legged on the thin mattress of his new, sterile reality. The walls were bare except for a bland print of a seascape bolted into the wall, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzed incessantly, an unrelenting reminder that he was stuck here.

He hated the quiet. It left too much room for his thoughts, and his thoughts were a battlefield.

The first day at the facility had passed in a haze. He vaguely remembered signing papers, his hand trembling so badly that the pen slipped twice. Faces blurred together—counselors, nurses, and other patients who shared the same hollowed-out eyes. It felt like a bad dream he couldn't wake from.

Now, hours later, or maybe days—he wasn't sure—he was sitting in silence, staring at his shaking hands. The detox symptoms were hitting hard, as they had years ago. Sweat beaded on his forehead, cold despite the oppressive heat he felt under his skin. His stomach churned, his muscles ached, and his mind wouldn't stop spinning.

And then there was him. Thom.

Jonny leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes tightly as if shutting out the world would stop the vivid images of Thom from creeping in. The way Thom had looked at him lately—tired, disappointed, but still there—was carved into his mind.

"God," Jonny muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

He'd promised Thom he'd get better. He'd promised himself. But promises felt cheap now, just words thrown into the wind.

The second day brought structure. A nurse knocked sharply on the door before entering, handing him a schedule printed on cheap paper. Breakfast at 8, group therapy at 9, individual sessions at 11, lunch at 12:30. On and on it went.

Jonny stared at it blankly, the words blurring together.

"You should shower," the nurse said, her tone soft but firm. "You'll feel better."

He didn't respond, and she didn't push, just left him to sit in the growing staleness of his room.

By the third day, Jonny's skin felt like it didn't fit anymore. He sat in a circle during group therapy, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the floor. The counselor—a middle-aged woman with kind but penetrating eyes—kept asking the group to share their stories.

"What brought you here?" she asked.

Jonny's turn came, but he didn't look up. His jaw tightened, and his hands gripped his knees so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Jonny?"

The sound of his name made his stomach twist. "Pass," he muttered.

"You don't have to share everything," she said gently. "But sometimes, speaking your truth is the first step."

His truth? What truth? That he was a failure? That he'd ruined everything good in his life? That he didn't deserve Thom or Colin or anyone? He clenched his fists tighter and said nothing.

That night, he sat on the bed, staring at the seascape bolted to the wall. He felt like the waves in the painting—trapped in place, unable to move, no matter how hard they churned.

His thoughts drifted to Thom again. Was he angry? Hurt? Would he forgive him for what happened, or had Jonny finally pushed him too far? The idea of Thom giving up on him was unbearable, a pit in his stomach that wouldn't go away.

He picked up the phone on the small table next to the bed. He'd been given permission to call one person, and it didn't take a second thought.

The line rang once, twice, then clicked.