Walter Unexpected

I wrote this for a short story assessment I had to do for school - figured I would post and just see if anyone liked it, so let me know what you think! It's my first attempt at a short story, so yeah, sorry if it's really bad.
[UPDATE: I got a really good mark, my school's equivalent of an A*!]

They sat in the bland kitchen of Joanne's new house. Two mugs sat on the table: one was blue with orange and green dots scattered randomly all over, full almost to the brim with lukewarm hot chocolate; the other was plain white, but it was a missing its handle - it probably broke off in the move. The only furniture in the room was a cherry wood table that stood next to a radiator at the far end of the kitchen, and the kitchen counters that were already installed.

"So, how are you?" A warm smile, trying too hard, over compensating.

The last time Joanne saw her dad was December 24th, 2005. She was six. The last conversation the two had was sprawled across the floor of the living room at their old flat, wrapping up Joanne's mum's Christmas present while she went to get take away. They laughed about how they should have had all the presents sorted weeks ago. And then he was gone, and she was confused.

Things changed after that. Her mum worked longer hours and eventually got a promotion. They moved into a bigger, more expensive house. It was nice and big and white - but it seemed so clinical. And Joanne's bedroom echoed.

Joanne's dad changed as well: he was never particularly athletic, but a beer-belly had now replaced what was once a flat stomach. His hair used to match Joanne's - thick, dark chocolaty brown - was now balding and sparse, and his cheeks had begun to wrinkle, bags forming under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept for weeks. In fact, he hadn't.

And what a question - it would take more than words to answer it. With that in mind, Joanne stuck with a non-descript, "Okay."

He nodded, and there was a long pause. They both stared blankly at the table; Joanne traced the grooves of the wood and her Dad tapped his boot-clad foot against the tiled kitchen floor in an arrhythmic pattern.

"Are you... sure? It's just, your Mum called and told me about..."

St. Bernadette's Rehabilitation Centre was a specialist rehab for teenagers with mental disorders and addictions. And Joanne did not want to be there.

She didn't ask for, want or need 'help' as far as she was concerned. But maybe we don't realise how bad a something is until it gets better. Maybe it takes something really, really good to show us how utterly miserable we were before.

Joanne's really, really good thing came in the form of Walter Jones.

It was on the third day that they met, in group counselling. He didn't speak, and neither did she. But they sat directly opposite each other in the trust circle, and made eye contact at least twice. It was very romantic.

The next day, he left the lunch room just as she entered. They shared a knowing smile (although both were a little forced; rehabs aren't particularly smiley places) at one of the other inmates kicking up a fuss about the dodgy food. It was the first smile Joanne had let slip onto her face in months.

The first time they spoke was on a dreary Thursday. The grey sky was threatening to break, and the wind bit at anyone who dared to cross it.

Her Mum had come to visit earlier that day for the mandatory family therapy, and she had lost her temper. She didn't get it, didn't understand why her daughter was so unhappy. But some people are sad, the same as how some people have green eyes or black hair. Just because.

It wasn't something Joanne could just snap out of, despite what anyone said. The depression - because she had finally admitted to herself that that's what it was, depression - was like she was buried under miles and miles of dark salty water, drowning, but seeing the people around her swimming. Those same people were trying to help her, but it was too dark down there for her to realise. But what could they do, anyway? Nothing.