A Song For You//[Thonny]

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jonny woke to the faint, tinny sound of someone's alarm clock blaring down the hall. The walls were paper-thin, and it was impossible to ignore the morning shuffle of the other residents: footsteps on linoleum, groggy voices muttering about the day ahead, the occasional sharp bark from a staff member corralling everyone toward breakfast.

He stared up at the ceiling, the same bland off-white color that seemed to stretch endlessly throughout the facility. It was another day—one more in the endless string of days that felt both achingly slow and unnervingly fast. Jonny didn't bother looking at the clock; he knew the routine by heart now.

Mornings were structured. Wake up, make the bed, get dressed. No lingering, no lying around. The staff were firm about that. "Routine is recovery," they'd say, their voices calm but unyielding. Jonny hated the phrase, hated how they repeated it like a mantra. But he followed the rules, mostly because he didn't have the energy to fight them.

He dragged himself out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. The small room felt suffocating, though it was tidy: a single bed, a nightstand with a few books Thom had sent him, and a small window that barely let in any light.

Jonny's eyes drifted to the stack of letters on the nightstand. Thom's handwriting was unmistakable, the letters thick with emotion. Jonny hadn't opened the most recent one yet. He didn't know why; maybe he was afraid of what it would say—or worse, what it wouldn't.

With a sigh, he grabbed the plain gray sweatshirt draped over the back of the chair and pulled it on, the fabric hanging loosely on his frame. He'd lost weight since arriving. The food here wasn't terrible, but he rarely had an appetite, and the weight of everything—the withdrawal, the group therapy sessions, the isolation—felt like it was dragging him down physically as well as mentally.

Breakfast was in the communal dining room, a sterile space filled with mismatched chairs and long tables. The smell of burnt coffee and powdered eggs filled the air as Jonny slid into his usual seat near the corner.

He wasn't in the mood for conversation, though that wasn't unusual. Most of the others left him alone, recognizing the unspoken rules of rehab: you didn't pry unless someone invited you in. A few nodded in his direction, offering the kind of half-smiles that came from shared misery, but Jonny barely acknowledged them.

He picked at his food, staring out the window at the small courtyard outside. The day was gray, a thin drizzle coating the pavement. It matched his mood perfectly.

After breakfast came group therapy. Jonny hated group therapy.

The room was a cramped circle of folding chairs, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He sat with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor as the counselor—an overly chipper woman named Karen—tried to coax everyone into sharing.

"Jonny," she said, her voice cutting through the awkward silence. "You've been here a few weeks now. How are you feeling today?"

Jonny shrugged, his jaw tightening. He hated how they put you on the spot, like peeling back layers of yourself was supposed to be easy. "Fine," he muttered, though the word felt like sandpaper in his throat.

Karen didn't press, but her patient smile grated on him. Another resident began speaking—a middle-aged man with deep lines etched into his face, recounting a story about his wife leaving him. Jonny half-listened, the words filtering in and out of his consciousness as his mind drifted.

The rest of the day followed the same pattern: individual therapy, chores, another bland meal, and a mandatory evening activity that was supposed to foster "community." Tonight, it was journaling, which Jonny found almost laughable. What was he supposed to write about?