Fugue
BODHI
TEN WEEKS SOBER
It was an unusually warm day for the start of March.
The sun was shining, the sky a blanket of blue without a cloud in sight.
Iggy and I had ventured out to the lake after a morning group therapy session, and it felt completely different to our previous visit.
For starters, we weren’t bundled up like we were bracing for an Arctic expedition, freezing our balls off at sunrise.
But also because Iggy was quiet.
He usually jabbered on until his throat was raw, bouncing from topic to topic until I forgot how we’d even started.
Iggy never got sick of hearing his own voice.
Never got tired of telling anyone who would listen exactly what was on his mind.
It was like the filter between his brain and mouth was faulty, and whatever words popped up were launched into the world without warning.
He was talkative on the best of days, loud and dramatic on the worst. Enough to give someone a migraine if they stayed too close for too long.
Strangely, though, I didn’t mind.
I was Iggy’s opposite, keeping my thoughts tucked away and my words carefully rationed.
At least until something felt truly worth saying.
When I was younger, I was so quiet my mom worried something was wrong with me.
She took me to three different doctors, just to be sure, and each of them told her the same thing. I just didn’t feel like talking.
So imagine her surprise when I told her Riff and I were starting a band. That I was going to be the singer.
But singing was different. Easier. It let me pour emotion into melody instead of conversation. It was simpler to stand in front of strangers who didn’t really know me and pretend I was a god. To wear a mask. To open my mouth and just sing.
For Iggy, everything was worth saying. It didn’t matter if it was ridiculous, crude, or wildly inappropriate.
He didn’t hide his thoughts or his feelings, which meant he never had a secret agenda.
Mostly because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut long enough to maintain one.
It was refreshing, after years in the music industry.
A place where insults wore the disguise of compliments and manipulation hid behind honeyed promises.
The only people I could trust to be direct, to be honest, were my bandmates. My brothers. And, I realised now, Iggy.
But today, he was curled into himself. Chin resting on his knees, arms wrapped tight around his legs, eyes fixed on the water rippling in the breeze.
He hadn’t said a word since leaving the sunroom, when he’d stood up abruptly as the session ended, marched through the gardens, and dropped to the ground like gravity had finally claimed him.
He didn’t react to the wildflowers glowing under the high sun.
Didn’t care when a butterfly landed briefly in his hair before vanishing into the grass.
His gaze stayed locked on some distant point, though I doubted he was really seeing it.
I wasn’t even sure he knew I was there, too lost in his own head to notice I’d followed him. He hadn’t asked me to. I just did.
“Do you think the staff ever think about former patients?”
The question was quiet, almost swallowed by the sounds of nature. Still, my head snapped towards him. It was the first thing he’d said since we arrived.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Iggy picked at the cuff of his cropped lilac sweater. Less ostentatious than his silver puffer jacket, but still unmistakably him. Cropped just enough to skim the bottom of his pecs, and dotted with tiny red hearts.
“Like . . . how many people leave the Willow and actually make it?” he said. “How many really survive?”
I stayed quiet and let him have the space. Let him speak while I simply listened.
“I’m sure some people leave and live long, happy lives,” he continued. “But how does that compare to the ones who don’t? The ones who leave hopeful, only to come back and start all over again.”
His hand dropped to a stray pebble by his side, and he tossed it into the lake. “Wouldn’t surprise me if this place was more tears than water by now.”
A weak chuckle slipped out, then died before it could become anything real.
“And what about the ones who fall back into old habits and just . . . disappear?”
He finally looked at me then. Green eyes glossy beneath dark lashes. Scared.
“I don’t want to disappear, Bodhi,” he whispered. “I don’t want to become a statistic someone uses to scare kids straight.”
I turned back to the water, listening to the calming sound of the waves lapping against the muddy shore a short distance away.
“I think I’m scared of the opposite,” I said quietly. “That I’ll have too many eyes on me when I get out of here. That their stares and expectations will feel too heavy on my shoulders.”
With a sigh, I leaned back and stretched my legs out in front of me, resting my weight on my hands. When I rolled my head to the side, I found Iggy watching me, chewing on his lower lip.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to us when we leave here,” I admitted. “But I am sure of one thing.”
Iggy leaned closer, like we were sharing a secret he was afraid to miss.
“Fear doesn’t mean failure, Iggy.”
“Okay,” he whispered, unconvinced. “But what if we leave here and stumble? What if we fail?”
A small smile tugged at my mouth. “Then we get back up and start again.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Like he’d expected me to spiral with him instead.
Truth was, part of me already was. But I couldn’t afford to sink into it. If I drowned in fear before I even stepped back into the real world, I’d be doomed before I began. Iggy just hadn’t realised yet that the same applied to him.
He exhaled and lay flat on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky. “It’s quiet here,” he said. “Almost too quiet. Like it doesn’t feel real.”
“I get that.” I followed his lead, folding my arms behind my head. “It’s like we’ve pressed pause on our real lives.”
His fingers plucked at the grass beside him, restless, needing movement. Then he reached into the tight pocket of his denim shorts and pulled out his vape. He inhaled, chest rising, and a cloud of strawberry-scented vapour drifted into the air. Without a word, he offered it to me.
Mine was still in my pocket, filled with mint instead of sugar. But I took his anyway, inhaling and forcing myself not to grimace.
“I think I’m scared the world will move on without me,” he said, staring at the sky. “If we’re on pause, I mean. That I’ll be forgotten. And then all the noise will come rushing back. The devil on my shoulder, telling me just one drink won’t hurt. One pill won’t matter.”
He slipped the vape away and crossed his ankles.
“It’s fucked up, but . . .” He hesitated. “I almost like being watched in here. Like if their eyes are on me, I’m being held accountable.” His voice dropped, casual and unguarded. “I can almost pretend it means someone cares.”
Something cracked in my chest at that.
I knew he wasn’t close with his family, but hearing it laid bare like that hurt more than I expected. Did he really think no one would notice if he disappeared? That no one would miss him?
I thought about my own safety net. Riff. The boys. Clara. Even the label, in their own twisted way. They watched me because I was an investment, sure, but they’d still stop me from self-destructing. Another set of eyes. Another reason to stay clean.
But who did Iggy have?
I wanted to tell him I cared. That I wanted him to live the long, happy life he worried might be reserved for other people. That he wasn’t invisible to me.
But Iggy didn’t handle heavy truths well.
He joked. Deflected. Twisted vulnerability into something loud and shiny so no one could linger on it too long.
I’d only seen flashes of the real him—moments like this, or when his own mouth betrayed him during group sessions.
And I wanted more of that version. The quiet one.
The scared one. The real one. If anyone truly saw all of him, it was Dr Williams. And only because recovery demanded it.
If I told him what I was thinking now, he’d laugh it off and call me a sap. Tell me not to waste my time, that he’d be fine. So I didn’t bother. I steered the conversation somewhere lighter instead.
“When I get out of here,” I said. “The first thing I’m doing is going to McDonald’s and eating a burger.” I pulled my own vape from my pocket and took a hit. “I’ve had too many vegetables. I need something American adjacent. Something greasy and bad for you.”
Iggy giggled, his whole body vibrating against the grass. The sound warmed something in my chest, slowly mending the crack his earlier words had left behind.
“What about you?” I asked.
He pursed his lips, considering it. “I want a Frappuccino. Chocolate or caramel, with loads of cream and sauce. Something absolutely packed with sugar.”
I laughed. “I don’t think you need any more sugar.”
He turned his head towards me, smirking. “Why? Because I’m sweet enough?”
“More like hyper enough,” I teased.
Iggy rolled onto his stomach, closing what little space there was between us, and poked my stomach. “I am not!”
“You’re like an overexcited chihuahua.” I pinched his rosy cheek. “Running around, yapping at everyone, stealing their snacks.”
He laughed and lightly punched my shoulder. “I am not a fucking chihuahua.”
I frowned, feigning seriousness. “You’re right. You’re more like a strangled cat when you try to sing those K-pop songs you love.”
Iggy burst out laughing, and I watched his eyes grow wet. Not with sadness. With pure, unfiltered joy.
“They’re good songs!” he protested.
“You can’t even speak Korean,” I shot back, rising onto my elbows and bringing us closer. “You just make random noises like a Sim having a breakdown.”