A Song For You//[Thonny]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Winter had arrived in full force, blanketing the town in frost and coating the rehab facility's courtyard in a thin sheen of ice. Jonny had been in the program for a little over three months now, a stretch of time that had crawled and flown by in equal measure. His days were regimented, every hour accounted for, and though he resented the structure at first, it had become a kind of anchor, something solid to hold onto as he worked to untangle himself from the chaos he'd been drowning in.

Jonny had begun to look more like himself—or at least a version of himself he'd long forgotten. His cheeks had filled out a little bit, and the hollow, haunted look in his eyes was fading. He still wasn't sleeping great, but he had been prescribed extra-strength melatonin for that and the worst of the withdrawal symptoms had passed, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that was somehow more manageable than the restlessness he'd lived with for years.

The mornings always started early.

Jonny woke at 7 a.m., the shrill ring of the alarm jolting him out of what little sleep he managed to get. The room was quiet except for the buzz of the furnace that blasted hell-hot air through the room. He groaned, rubbing his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Another day, another chance to fight his way forward and out of here—or to fall apart trying.

Breakfast at 8 a.m. was bland but filling, and the first group session of the day began promptly at 9 a.m. Jonny sat in his usual spot, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as the counselor, Karen, opened the floor to anyone who wanted to share.

At first, Jonny had hated these sessions. Listening to other people bare their souls felt invasive, and being asked to do the same felt impossible. But over time, he'd come to appreciate the raw honesty in the room. It reminded him he wasn't alone, even when he felt like he was.

When it was his turn to speak, he hesitated, staring down at the floor before finally lifting his gaze.

"I didn't think I'd make it this far," Jonny admitted, his voice low but steady. "Three months ago, I was... I don't even know. I felt like I was just waiting to hit rock bottom, but it turns out I was already there."

A few heads nodded in silent understanding.

"I still don't know if I can do this," Jonny continued, his fingers twisting in his lap. "But I know I don't want to go back to the way things were. That... that counts for something, right?"

"It absolutely does," Karen said, her tone calm but firm. "Acknowledging that you want to change is a huge step. You're putting in the work, Jonny. That's what matters."

Jonny nodded, but doubt still clawed at the edges of his mind.

The letters from Thom were the only things that kept him grounded some days. They came regularly, each one filled with encouragement and updates about life back home. Thom didn't sugarcoat anything—he admitted how much he missed Jonny, how hard it was to stay hopeful some days—but his words were always laced with an undercurrent of belief.

"Jonny," the end of one letter read, "I can see you're fighting, even from here. I'm so proud of you. You're stronger than you think, and you're not doing this alone. Keep going, love. I'm here."

Jonny had read that particular part of the letter so many times he'd memorized it. He kept it folded neatly in the drawer by his bed, alongside the others, and pulled it out whenever the weight of it all felt unbearable.

When Thom arrived for his visit three months in, Jonny felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. He waited in the small visiting room, his hands clasped tightly together as he watched the door. When Thom finally walked in, bundled in his winter coat and scarf, Jonny felt a lump rise in his throat.