~Rewritten from August 2019 to October 2019~
A relationship like theirs shouldn't work. They're too busy chasing their own demons and running from what haunts them on a daily basis. Love has no place between them, and their hearts are not habitable...
"So..." Noel leans back in his chair. "How are you feeling today?"
My brain processes the question, frowning deeply. I have to put a hand on my chest to see if I'm still alive. Then I finally answer. "...good."
Noel's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline (which is a feat in itself, it's nonexistent). "Good?"
"Yeah," I nod.
"Robin... I think that's the first time you've answered like that since you've been here."
"I mean... I'm not feeling great, but... nothing to complain about."
The truth is that it's been an uphill battle to just get to good. It's been a month since I left the hospital, and I've been dedicated on getting better. I take my medication religiously, show up to therapy on time, and utilize the techniques Noel has given me to deal with my shitty thoughts. There are still nights that I want to seclude myself from everyone, but then I call either Mordecai or Natalie and they both do good jobs at dispelling my worries.
I haven't been consistently good. But a month ago, I've been consistently bad. So I consider this a win in my book.
"So, what changed?"
"Being high in a hospital for a month gives you a new perspective on life, y'know?" I shrug.
He gives me a deadpan look. "I see you're still a smartass," he mutters. "Well, whatever you're doing right now, keep doing it. It seems to be working for you."
"Did I need your permission for that?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
"No, but I'm legally obligated to tell you whether your coping mechanisms are healthy or not. So unless you're addicted to something or if it's harming others, keep doing what you're doing."
"Thanks, doc," I nod at him.
"Okay." He sits up in his chair again. "Let's move onto today's topic."
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Roscoe is the one who answers Mordecai's door. I give him a questioning look and all he says is, "He's having a moment."
"Oh, no..." I sigh. I enter the apartment to see Mordecai splayed out on the couch, one hand in a bowl of chips and the other pulling at the roots of his hair stressfully.
"He was punching the air," Roscoe informs me. "So I got him to start eating something."
"What happened?" I frowned.
"Nothing," Mordecai answers, sinking his face into both of his hands now.
"Mordecai..." I reprimand. "We talked about being honest with me."
