Saved By Steven (the first story)

28. Sharing?

After lunch, the family group therapy session took place in one of the larger common rooms. The furniture had been arranged in a wide circle: couches, armchairs, and a few uncomfortable plastic chairs for overflow. The circle of chairs felt oddly formal, too wide to be intimate, too close to feel safe.

Lauren sat slumped on the worn leather couch between Steven and Joe, dressed in the same oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants she'd lived in all week.She hadn't said a word since talking to Joe. 

Around them were other patients and their families — some holding hands, some awkwardly distant. Across the room, Sydney sat with her father, Richard. She hadn't said much since they arrived. Her eyes, however, rarely left Lauren.
She looks like a ghost, Sydney thought. Not the Lauren she remembered — the energetic, no-nonsense teacher who wore eyeliner like armor and made Shakespeare feel like rock music. This Lauren seemed hollow, eyes sunken, skin pale, shoulders curled inward like she was trying to fold herself out of existence.

Sydney couldn't help but wonder what had happened. She remembered the rumors that had spread like wildfire at school: Miss L was found half-dead backstage... Miss L's boyfriend is that rockstar... Miss L's in rehab.

But it wasn't gossip to Sydney. It was Lauren. The teacher who once caught her crying in the wings and said, "Nobody cries alone in my theater," before sitting beside her until the tears stopped. Now, Sydney watched Lauren quietly wipe her face with the sleeve of someone else's shirt.
"Would either of you like to say something about how Lauren's addiction has affected you?" the therapist asked Steven and Joe.Steven took a breath. "When I found her passed out... I thought she was dead."Joe followed. "She was unraveling for a long time. We just... didn't know how deep it went."As their voices echoed around her, Lauren's composure began to fracture. The tears came suddenly. Quiet but unstoppable. Joe put an arm around her."Lauren," the therapist said gently, "this is the first time we've seen emotion from you. What made you cry?""I never meant for them to get hurt," she whispered. "I love you guys.""You didn't want to hurt them, but you did by drinking.""They drank too," she said, her voice sharp with sudden fury. "It's not like I'm the only one to blame. Hell, Joe gave me half the shit I used. Steven poured the drinks."The therapist didn't interrupt. Lauren's anger had cracked something open."It felt good," she said. "The drugs — they made me feel like I wasn't being raped over and over again."The silence was immediate and suffocating.Steven turned pale. Joe's mouth dropped open."I took them so I wouldn't feel the abortion. The baby leaving. The guilt. The... filth of it. I needed to be numb."
Her voice cracked at that word, and for a brief, brutal moment, the room shattered.Sydney stared, frozen. In her mind, a sudden image rose unbidden — Lauren after rehearsal one evening, her eyes red-rimmed but unreadable, telling Sydney, "Be careful walking home, okay? Don't trust people just because they smile."Back then, Sydney thought it was just adult paranoia.Now, she wasn't so sure.
Lauren's eyes were wild with hurt. "I still don't want to feel it," she whispered. "I don't want to feel anything. I don't want your prayers. I don't want your therapy. I don't want your twelve fucking steps!"And with that, she pushed to her feet and stormed out of the room.
Steven made to follow, but the therapist stopped him. "Let her go."Steven cleared his throat. "When I found her that night... passed out in my dressing room... I thought she was dead." His voice cracked slightly. "I didn't even know how bad it was until that moment. And still, she tried to pretend she was fine the next day. But she wasn't. She hasn't been for a long time."

Steven stood like he was going to follow her, but the therapist held up a hand.
"Let her go. For now.""Jesus," Steven whispered. "She's... broken."Joe rubbed his temples. "I didn't know she felt like that.""She's been carrying it for months," the therapist said. "Years, probably. What you just saw — that outburst — that was pain finally ripping through the surface. It's a breakthrough. But also dangerous.""She can't let go," Joe said. "She clings to pain like it's her best friend."Steven turned to him, agitated. "Don't say that.""It's true. You know it is. She finds comfort in hurting, because she grew up thinking pain is love.""Then what do we do?" Steven asked the therapist. "How do we help her?""We wait. We earn her trust. And we don't give up on her — even when she gives up on herself."Steven nodded solemnly. "Then I'm not going anywhere."
Out in the hallway, Lauren collapsed onto the cold tile, heart racing. She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Her vision blurred — from tears or withdrawal, she couldn't tell.And suddenly she was there again.
The floor was tile, just like this. Her cheek pressed to it. She remembered the smell of bleach. His breath in her ear. The weight of him. Her voice had left her completely. Afterward, she curled up on that same cold floor, unable to move. Just shaking. Bleeding. Waiting for it to stop.
She gripped the cigarette tighter, forcing herself to stay in the present.Footsteps approached. Richard."Let me," he said gently, lighting her cigarette.She inhaled sharply, not meeting his eyes. "Thanks.""You alright?""Fine."
She wasn't. She was wrecked.From the edge of the hallway, Sydney watched silently. Her chest ached for the woman she once admired — now sitting on the floor like a war survivor, still fighting battles nobody else could see.And somewhere in her gut, Sydney made a decision.She would write to Lauren. Even if she didn't want to read it. Even if she threw it out. Because somebody had to tell her: she was still seen. Still loved.