Chapter -
Asher
Running a hand through my short hair, I turned into the room and saw that a few people had already arrived.
At the far end, a woman—Dana, I think her name was—was pouring coffee for the clients.
My mother was right; I didn’t recognize her.
I hadn’t crossed paths with her before at the hospital, which was pretty impressive considering I’d spent nearly the past two years in and out of that place, until I finally figured out how to survive with the least amount of pain possible.
“Hello! Welcome! Help yourself to snacks. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?” she asked brightly as soon as she noticed me.
I shook my head. “I’m okay, thank you. Nice to meet you,” I replied before weaving through a few of the other clients and taking a seat in the circle.
I made a mental note of who was already seated.
In groups like this, once people claimed a chair, it often became their chair for the rest of the program.
Most didn’t switch. I liked to make a quiet game out of it—see who stayed in their spot, who shifted as the weeks went on.
You could learn a lot from just from where people sat.
To my left was an older man who looked like he might’ve been battling alcoholism.
His scruffy beard hadn’t seen a razor in at least a couple of weeks, and his messy hair gave off strong bedhead energy.
He looked like he’d just woken up—even though it was already 1:00 p.m. Poor guy probably didn’t know what he had going for him in this life.
A few seats over sat a young girl with stunning, curly hair. She appeared slightly younger than me. She was dressed stylishly—cargo pants and attitude included. A sour grape expression clung to her face like armour.
And beside her sat a mystery.
My God.
She might have been the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.
Her full, pouty lips were a natural blush pink, slightly parted as if always on the verge of saying something. Her eyes were huge—wild green—and they looked like they could cut right through a person. She was petite, but sat tall with an unexpectedly poised posture.
Something about her struck me as enigmatic—complicated. A puzzle. And if I was being honest, I was already eager to solve her.
What was her story?
She made herself look small, staring down at her hands as she fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeve.
This woman might have been the saddest human being I’d ever seen.
Her eyes were vacant as they swept the room, carefully avoiding contact with anyone else.
And her frown—it wasn’t just a simple downturn of the lips.
It was a permanent fixture, a mouth that hadn’t remembered what a smile felt like.
What was her story?
The sharp scrape of chairs against the tile startled me. Here we go. The group was about to begin. I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, take this girl’s hand, and get the hell out of there.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I shook the thought. I wasn’t some guy who just fawned over women like this.
But…maybe I could be? Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Dana began her opening spiel, rattling off the usual housekeeping details.
I assumed this would be like every other group—introductions, ice breakers, the works.
I’d been through enough of these that I could probably run one myself, credentials or not.
I still didn’t understand what made this particular group so special that it required a facilitator with extra accreditation, though.
My thoughts drifted until I noticed the girl beside me had started talking. Normally, I was good at staying tuned in, but I couldn’t help it—my head was spinning thanks to the green-eyed mystery sitting across from me. I couldn’t read her. And that threw me off.
I was usually excellent at reading people. These sessions were like puzzles, and I liked figuring out the pieces—guessing their stories, piecing together what had broken them. I was often right, or at least close.
The woman beside me introduced herself as Ashley.
She spoke with a kind of quiet dread, like simply using her voice was a monumental task.
She was clearly uncomfortable. My guess?
Shitty husband. Probably cheated. Made her feel worthless.
Maybe she tried to change herself for him—be prettier, thinner, happier—but none of it worked.
Cue the depression, and now here she was, sitting in a folding chair under fluorescent lights, wondering where the fuck she went wrong in life.
When she finished, her cheeks were flushed a deep pink. She glanced over at me, wide-eyed and desperate, silently pleading for me to speak next—like if I didn’t, she might actually implode right there in her seat.
I was happy to take over.
“My name’s Asher,” I announced with confidence. “I’m here today to hopefully accept new perspectives into my life, since I think sometimes I can be narrow-minded. And an activity I enjoy would be hockey. In fact, I love hockey.”
Understatement of the year, Asher.
I looked around the group, holding my confident front even as it became glaringly obvious that no one was actually listening. That was the nature of these groups. Half the room tuned out until the walls came down and people started feeling comfortable enough to show up as themselves.
As I scanned the circle, her eyes caught mine.
She was listening.
The moment our eyes locked, she looked away, retreating back into the safety of her hands. The curiosity that stirred in me was more than just interest—it felt like hunger. I needed to know what was going on inside her head.
I didn’t bother with the usual hand-off or nod for the next person to speak. I just sat back and let it happen, already slipping into disinterest as the next person started. My focus had shifted entirely.
To her.
Her hair was a beautiful kind of chaos—long, bleach-blonde strands that framed her face like a curtain she could hide behind. She sat still, detached, like she wanted nothing more than to disappear into her chair.
Then something shifted. Her face tensed. Her breathing looked…controlled, like she was trying to find rhythm in the storm. Was she having a panic attack?
These groups were never designed with panic in mind. They were all about pressure—talk, share, emote. As if recreating your worst-case scenario in a room full of strangers was somehow therapeutic. Or at least, that’s how my mother explained it.
Maybe mystery girl struggles with social anxiety.
It was her turn for introductions now, but she had no idea. She was deep inside whatever was happening in her body, she didn’t see all the eyes now locked onto her.
No one moved. No one stepped in.
She opened her eyes—and froze.
The realization hit her like a slap, and just like that, she started coughing. Her body doubled forward, clenched into a fist she pressed against her mouth, trying to shield herself from the room that had suddenly become a stage.
No one was helping her.
I stood up immediately and moved toward her.
I wasn’t about to let her face this embarrassment alone.
She was already struggling, and now she was choking on her own thoughts.
Just two or three steps, and I was crouching in front of her, offering a soft smile and holding her gaze.
I wanted her to know I was here, right here, right now.
Maybe no one had been there for her before.
Maybe that’s why she carried that fierce independence—seemed fitting.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
Pure anger flashed across her face.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she snapped.
The tension between us thickened, bitter on my tongue. Why was she mad at me? I felt a confusion I’d never known before.
Backing off, I said, “Okay, well it’s your turn.”
I stood up, slumped back into my chair, crossed my arms. Why that response? Did I disgust her or something?
Just then, she caught my eyes and shot me a full-on glare screaming—I hate you, you fucking prick. Wow. I seriously misread the room.
Dana, the facilitator, cleared her throat.
The mystery girl straightened slightly, chin tilting up as if to silently say, I’m fine, really.
“Umm…My name is Lennon. I have to be here if I want to complete the assisted suicide program, and I don’t have hobbies other than completing this program now.”
Assisted suicide program?
What the fuck?
Why was she involved in something like that?
My brows furrowed, a thousand thoughts crashing through my head.
How could someone want to die? Was she in unbearable physical pain?
Not just the sadness and darkness that gnawed at me sometimes?
I needed to know more. I couldn’t leave it like this, wondering why she was here only to check out at the end.
The group droned on with housekeeping and rules, but my mind wasn’t in it.
Lennon.
That name—Lennon—would forever be burned into the frontal lobe of my brain.
She was beautiful, spiteful, and utterly an enigma.
I wasn’t sure why I felt so drawn to her, but now more than ever, I was determined to share with her the reasons I was still trying to live—despite knowing death was inevitable.
How could she so casually say she wanted to check the fuck out?
Everyone else introduced themselves, but outside of Lennon, Dana, and Ashley, I didn’t catch a single name. Damn, I’d better pay better attention next time. Dana wrapped up the group, saying she’d see us Thursday. Chairs scraped and squeaked against the floor in a chorus as everyone got up.
Lennon bolted for the door. Quick. Desperate to escape.
I jogged after her.
“Hey!” I called out, but she didn’t hear me. I didn’t want to startle her by grabbing her shoulder, so when I caught up, I used her name instead. “Lennon, wait up.”
Anxiety seemed to ripple down her spine—her shoulders lifted and her head slumped slightly into her neck. She stopped and tilted her head to the side, clearly unimpressed.
Her ruthless gaze cut into me with pure annoyance. “What?” The sharp emphasis on the ‘t’ made the corners of my mouth lift into a smile. I tried to hide it, but part of me wanted her to know she didn’t scare me. I wouldn’t be pushed away that easily.
I was going to ask her about the suicide program straight up—I really was—but something about that felt stupid. Like that information was hers to share, not mine to pry. Instead, I fumbled, “I, uh…was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch?”
Her lips parted, her glare deepening in those vivid, green eyes. Then a chuckle escaped her, low and dry, right before she shoved past me and kept walking. “No,” she spat.
“No? Why not?” I pleaded, chasing her down again.
“Why not?” she echoed with a sarcastic edge. “How about for starters, it’s fucking 3:00 pm and lunch is over, buddy.”
Oh, so this was how she wanted to play. Well, I was all in for games.
“You know what? You’re right. Dinner it is,” I said, smiling. Her shoulders finally dropped as she shook her head. If I wasn’t imagining things, she was smirking—though she kept her back firmly turned.
I caught up as she slowed her pace and stepped right in front of her. Her expression hadn’t changed, but if anything, she looked even more annoyed.
“Listen,” she said, her voice steady, “I bet you’re a nice guy. Someone all the girls want to date. But here’s the thing—I’m not a nice girl. So no, I don’t want to go for lunch with you, or dinner, either. In fact, if I never had to see you again, that would be just fine. Capiche?”
She punctuated the last word with a shoulder check, then kept walking like I was nothing.
Damn. This was going to be harder than I thought.
I watched her retreat without a glance back. As much as she hated the ground I stood on, I was fired up by the challenge. Just by existing, Lennon was keeping me alive—and she didn’t even know it. These little interactions made me want to live, out of spite.
Lennon. I was determined to figure her out.
“Capiche.”