1 Dear Holden,

The first time I saw you was a documentable experience.

I had just recovered from an ambulance ride rife with tears as well as nausea. The waiting room's sofa was stiff, but I stretched along it anyway. There were two windows taking up wall space across from me, sort of like those interrogation windows in cop shows. Like if I listened hard enough, applied enough nuance, I'd get someone to confess. That was a silly supposition. I think when I was young, I vastly overestimated my charisma. No amount of talking stopped Father calling the hospital after all.

Gods, I hate remembering his face. It was so... sad. It was skewed in a conflicted expression of pity and fear. In that moment he realized my real self. I was never to be his heir, nor anyone successful enough in her own right. Somewhere in the nonlinear path of aging I became a reflection of everything Father hated about himself. It wasn't a conscious decision. In fact, I've spent most of my life trying to emulate him perfectly. All my efforts fell flat though, the exact second Father held his phone to his ear.

When the ghost of my reflection caught my eye, I wondered if there was any physical way I could pinpoint where I went wrong. Was the way our noses bumped at the bridge the offender? Our almond shaped eyes? The way our square jaws tended to stick out when deep in thought?

Yes, yes I know I've narrowly avoided a tangent. However, purely recording past events will not be enough to serve my purpose. You have to slog through my flawed perception of things, the terrible misunderstandings, the horrible understandings, the way I tend to view every detail of a person as intrinsically connected to my journey of personhood. And no, this isn't just my narcissism talking either. It will lead to an understanding where we both belong in life's vast narrative. Even if it hurts, I'll make you read everything, because I can't bear to be another lie in your increasingly complex character.

When I heard the roll of wheels on the hard floor, I realized someone was soon to join me. I didn't shy away from the window. You arrived flanked by two paramedics, who parked the stretcher. The waiting room door opened upon their arrival, revealing the man who'd handed me medical forms and taken my id picture. He walked through with nary a glance towards me. He repeated the admittance process for you, and when you lifted your head, I found my face near squished against glass.

The most, but not only, striking attribute of yours is what drew me in. Mostly out of shock. Your eyes struck me as unnatural in their size, taking up most of your small face and slightly red around the edges from either anger or tears. At first I was convinced you didn't have irises with how pale they appeared. Then I noticed how your jaw was clenched, not only sharp but nearly jutting out your skin, like you were keeping all your anger coiled in that one spot. At the time you had dreadlocks as pale as the rest of you, tied back like an afterthought. Nothing, not your hair nor skin appeared natural. Or at least, I've never known anyone who looked like you. Like someone who was meant to be lively, only to be drained of it all somehow.

This was observed and recorded in my mind for all of a second as I wrangled with the decision whether to approach you or mind my business. On one hand St Toppan's Behavioral Program will never be a good place to make friends, definitely not life lasting ones, but I did recall what my mother said before leaving me at the crisis center.

She'd been sitting on a provided chair in vigil, her hand reached on my bed far enough from my own that I knew not to reach back. If my mother was disappointed or mad she didn't show it. She said, 'remember that place is like a prison. Never go anywhere alone, and don't start any fights.'

Well if St Toppan's was going to be anything like prison, it'd do me good to make as many acquaintances as possible. Like a prison movie. Right as I silently made my peace with attaching to you like a parasite, the man returned to the waiting room and asked for my forms. I handed them over, though I was sure I filled them in incorrectly, and he left. On cue, the paramedics left as well, leaving you to simmer in your stretcher. The female paramedic spared me an exasperated glance when she noticed I was staring.

Your face fitted along my reflection once you turned to peer at me drearily. I smiled, though you didn't mirror it. Your lips, bowed naturally, were downturned into a pout more petulant than probably intended.

"What's your name?" I asked.

You humored me despite probably not expecting to being strong-held into a conversation so soon. 'Holden,' you responded. While I kept up a mild attitude, drawing back on lessons my mother provided in the hopes of making me more sociable, you had no such concerns. Your voice came out as a scratched timbre, the clear sound of a good sob's aftermath.

"My name's Vinnie." I prodded one it became evident you weren't interested in continuing. "Uh, short for Lavinia."

"Lavinia... like Lavinia Fisher?"

"Who?"

You hummed thoughtfully and said "forget it."

This conversation was already getting awkward, so I brought out the big guns because a masochistic part of me clearly wanted to further the tepid air. "What'd you get admitted for?"

That question was what finally piqued your interest, and your pout tremored into a hesitant smile. "I swallowed a whole bottle of bleach and didn't die."

You- were you actually proud of that? I asked as much, to which your smile widened until it was a mocking grin.

"Well? What were you admitted for then?"

"I threatened suicide."

"Ahhh so you're the type of person who believes you aren't that kind of crazy. "I just get sad sometimes but it's nothing mindful thinking can't fix!"'

My hackles rose, though I have to admit that this was one of my more idiotic hills to die on. 'As a matter of fact, yes, of course I don't belong here! I was taken against my will. I do apologize for not using my tragic backstory as some kind of sick prize to tout around!'

I wholly expected you to snap back, or make a defensive gesture towards me, but you didn't. Instead you remained unfettered by my temper, with an antagonizing expression. Almost akin to a school bully getting the wanted reaction after irritating his crush.

Instead you didn't shut up. "Look, I know why you're trying to talk to me, and it's not because some selfless venture into friendship," as if I was trying to pull off some long con. I shrugged, encouraging you to continue.

"And I'm cool with it, really. I've been there before- hospitals get lonely so I don't mind having someone to keep me company. But, and this is important," here you narrowed your eyes, giving your pupils the impression of telescopes boring into me.

"I need you to chill. Acting all mopey and shit is only going to bring energy to people who actually want to get better and I certainly don't need bad vibes. Just tryna keep my head down, which you're doing too. Yeah?"

I blinked, not properly comprehending what you'd said. A beat too late, I repeated, "Yeah."

"Cool?"

"Cool."

We were in agreement. There didn't seem to be anymore reason to talk, though you didn't seem to mind.