“When's the last time you showered? Or ate? I assume you're eating.” the therapist says to her patient.

Head down, as always, hair in front of his face, a gravelly voice utters “I eat, it's not healthy, but I eat.”

“And the medication?”

“I take it.” He's not lying, but it doesn't seem to matter. This crash has been a long time coming, and no amount of pills is going to fix it, though they keep throwing them at Lan en masse.

“Lan, you're here on your own, nevermind who's paying for it.” Your father, he thinks. “If you don't talk, I can't help you.”

Lan opens his mouth and pauses, nothing comes out. I want to scream, I want to wail and prostrate myself, to curse every God in name and form, I want to explode, I want to be beyond this, I can't get beyond this. You're supposed to be helping me, how can you fix me. “I..” Will yourself to speak, Lan. Push it out, push the air over your vocal chords and SAY SOMETHING.

“Alright, Lan.. we'll try next week.” The doctor pushes from her chair as her patient finally perks up, only to look at the clock. Had it been an hour already? He hadn't said anything, he listened, always listening, but nothing will be fixed if you don't speak – the last part of that thought in his father's voice. What does talking about it do? What does it help?

His body moves on its own, walking out of the office without even bothering to schedule another appointment. Every Thursday, without fail. Pushing his hair back from his eyes, he stands under an awning covering him from a curtain of rain. Two bus stops and home, huh.

Lan rubs his fingers together, an umbrella would have been nice. Inhaling deep, he ducks into the rain towards the bus stop.

Saya squints into the frosted glass next to her neighbor's door, as if it can help. She doesn't bother with the peephole, that was embarrassing enough before. Gripping the doorknob with both hands she tenses up, it had to be today, didn't it? Rage builds up inside as she yanks and pushes at her neighbor's door, a guttural “FFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK!!” escaping her as she finally lets go, thumping back against the railing behind her and pressing her palms against her forehead.

Had to go here, didn't you, bitch? This fucking college, this shitty god damned apartment, she thinks to herself. Super's gone, friends live somewhere else, and your pathetic ass is wailing on a neighbor's door like he has the skeleton key to all of your problems. She looks up at the door for a moment, idly wondering if she would be responsible for damages. Were there any?

Standing back up, Saya runs her fingers along the door, specifically near the knob, it didn't look damaged, not that she could do much even if she wante..

Freezing, she stops cold as a tall, dark figure stands near her – in front of her door. Whoever it was is soaked to the bone, and TALL. But damned if they don't look like Sadako. Saya would have laughed if she weren't fighting back the real fear starting to churn in her stomach. His black hair was covering his face, hands in his pockets even though his long-sleeved shirt drained at the wrists of the water soaked in it. And he didn't move. That was the weird part. He didn't move, and he didn't speak. And neither could Saya.