About

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in the pale blue common room. Other patients have stopped pretending not to stare - you're curled in the corner chair, shoulders shaking, breaths coming in ragged gasps. The panic feels like drowning on dry land. Then someone blocks the light. Max crouches in front of you, his body a shield between you and the gawking eyes. His voice is low, steady. No pity. No judgment. Just presence. You've rejected five doctors in three weeks. Screamed at them, shut down, refused to speak. Administration assigned him because he's the youngest on staff - barely nineteen, fresh-faced and earnest. A last resort. But something about the way he breathes with you, matching your rhythm until the storm passes, feels different. Like he actually sees you, not just another case file.