as with most clinically reputable sources about symptoms of severe mental illnesses, every article about catatonia is written from an outsider's perspective.
this is what catatonia it is like for me, on the inside
feeling your muscles tighten at a slow and constant rate that you could not perform on queue. if i get stuck holding something while catatonic, my fingers will eventually dig into it so deeply that it hurts.
i get stuck in awkward positions. legs tucked underneath my body, most of my weight shifted to one side, head tilted, stuff like that. because of your muscles stiffening as well, this becomes uncomfortable in less than ten minutes, and agonizing in 20.
time passes differently. most of my catatonic episodes at this point last for upwards of 2 hours, even with ativan. but the two hours i spend while catatonic feel comparably faster than if i just decided to sit down and stare at nothing for 2 hours. (the "increased speed" does not make it more pleasant and it's not like dissociation i don't think. it's just like, usually at 1.25x speed)
i'm aware of my surroundings i literally just can do fuck all about them.
i cannot focus on anything more complex than a children's cartoon during it. i have tried putting on longer documentaries, but never get anything to stick in my brain. i still prefer longer things to watch or listen to during cataleptic catatonia tho.
my muscles burn during the whole thing from being so tense or not positioned "squarely" i.e. - shoulders hips and neck at a 90 degree angle.
i will be sore and exhausted the next day, which actually makes it more likely for me to become catatonic again.
i never know how long it will be before i can move again. 3 to 4 hours isn't out of the question (note: i feel lucky that its never gotten longer than 4 hours as catatonia can last for days)
the embarrassment. like, there's no shame in experiencing it, i know that. but it doesn't make me stop feeling like i wish i could crawl into a hole, especially when it happens in public. i hate being stared at on the best of days and being so stiff that people have to frog march you everywhere is just , it's so not fun.
screaming for help inside my head (i can't use AAC when i can't move, unless i was able to feel it coming on beforehand and set my switch up)
or, being so embarrassed that i don't want anyone to find me no matter how long it takes for me to come out of it.
when i am "coming out" of it, i slowly start to be able to move lighter body parts first, like fingers and toes, then hands and feet. the last thing i am able to move is my upper legs and torso.
i am basically dead weight during this time, and my body is hard for other people to move as well because of tension in my muscles.
any needing to go to the bathroom? either you hold it, or someone kinda has to frog march you to the toilet, or, you're gonna have to do laundry
it sucks
it doesn't stop sucking until a few days after the fact, because it's physically and emotionally exhausting
obligatory disclaimers that 1. these are only my experiences, don't use them as your only source of information about catatonia 2. my experiences only apply to cataleptic catatonia. i don't have excited catatonia, so i didn't post about it.
if anyone else wants to add their experiences with what catatonia (not freeze responses or autistic inertia, please) feels like from the inside, i would love to also hear about them.
edit because it happened a couple times: don't tag this as writing reference or similar. come on now y'all.
🖤 An Ongoing Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.
VOLUME II • Chapters 38 -> 39
Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader
enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 into S5 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting turned happy ending (no more upside down!), ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
🎂 CHAPTERS BLURB: Steve's 22nd birthday has already made his biggest wish come true: the whole party is here to stay at Casa Harrington.
The pool house is fully built, now becoming yours & Steve's sole sanctuary... just behind the main house, where everyone else will hold permanent residency. You've poured your best work and fiercest passion into every single board, tall window, paint swatch and piece of furniture inside of this place so that he'll not only feel right at home... but so that the two of you can begin truly building the start of forever together.
🖤 AUTHOR'S NOTE: Guess what?? More V2 is back ;) Still uploading to V3, so enjoy both in real time. We're almost out of summer and into the autumn chapters, that way we can finally get into Christmastime.
This is the hill I die on. This pairing? My OTP. They'll never not be my favorite, no matter how many other fics that I write. Steve & Babe Bauman Supremacy 5ever.
Xx, misha
OVERALL WARNINGS: big t.w.'s - severe traumatic diagnosis for the main character, heavy topics, language, sensitive mental health matters. mega comfort to balance the mega hurt/comfort trope. 🖤
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Stay a While (or, forever)
JULY 16, 1991
“But if you do mix vodka, triple sec, blue curaçao, and whiskey,” Jonathan was saying, already half-laughing as he twisted a lemon peel over a drink. “Technically, it’s still a cocktail. It’s just… existentially upsetting.”
Murray blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “What you’ve created is shit. That’s not a cocktail. That’s a chemical incident. Do it near my cake and I will evict you.”
Jonathan grinned and held up the glass like a victory torch. “I call it the Blue Sobriety Test.”
“More like Blue Regret,” Robin muttered from the couch, where she was perched upside down, legs hooked over the backrest, sipping something clear with a mint garnish.
It was just after 10 A.M., but the sunlight pouring in through the high, clean glass of the pool house made everything feel like magic hour.
The pale, freshly painted walls gleamed. It smelled like citrus and cake and the tiniest hint of chlorine from the nearby pool. The vibe? Ethereal. Dreamy. Sundrenched and strangely refined, like a place that shouldn’t exist in Hawkins, Indiana. The entire pool house looked like it’d tumbled out of a magazine but still had soft, cushy throw blankets and well-loved mugs scattered across the new counters.
You’d done the design from scratch… your very first.
And while it carried your mark in the way that all the walls were textured, the colors chosen, the warmth tucked into every corner, it was also so deeply, unmistakably Steve.
Soft neutrals. Natural light. A mixture of both elegance and comfort. A deep navy couch Steve had once pointed to in a catalog. Honey-toned hardwood. A clawfoot tub in the master bath. An absurd, rainforest-style shower in the guest suite that Murray had taken one look at, smirked, then whispered, “There’s no way this wasn’t meant for orgies.” He was ignored, but the way it could fit up to six people made it fact.
And Steve?
Steve was radiant.
Still quiet. Still mostly nonverbal. But not a ghost. Not even close to a ghost. He sat at the long dining table now, beneath a string of delicate paper lanterns, barefoot in soft sweatpants, the sleeves of his cream-colored shirt pushed up. Thin but sunkissed and warmed. Relaxed. Present. His big eyes flicked from one person to the next, and every time that someone met his gaze, his lips curled faintly. His shoulders never once rose defensively.
Not today.
Catatonia had taken the day off.
Because this was his day.
And sure, it came with some setbacks. But none of them weren't already divided and conquered by him in these millions of ways, big or small, that he's made an effort to execute during his healing journey alongside all of you and Dr. Owens.
In the center of the kitchen island sat his birthday cake. Three tiers, perfectly smooth and pastel oyster blue, like a faded summer sky. Creamy and soft, barely tinted, iced by you to literal perfection.
The writing on the top, Happy Birthday, Steve, had been piped in the palest yellow cursive by Will, who now stood nervously beside it, glancing at it every few seconds like it might melt if he blinked.
“You did amazing, Will,” you told him as you came up behind Steve to press a hand gently to his shoulder.
Will blushed. “You made the base look like it’s from Martha Stewart’s secret wedding.”
“That’s the point,” Murray said, appearing at the counter with a wide grin and a martini shaker. “It’s called elegant heritage. We’re classy now.”
“Even though we are both not related to Julia Child,” you sputtered with a laugh that you couldn’t even try to hold back. “No matter how much you wanna believe we are!”
“We are,” your uncle argued, voice reaching an all-new octave as you rolled your eyes because this had been a constant battle for the last 21 years of your life.
He held up a coupe glass filled with something golden and slightly fizzy. “I call it the Harrington Honeydrop. Vodka, St. Germain, lemon juice, a hint of honey, and a dash of edible glitter because fairies do exist.”
Robin reached out without looking. “I’ll take five.”
“Already halfway to three,” Argyle called from the couch, where he was helping Max build a tower of red plastic cups just for the hell of it.
Dustin burst in from the back patio, yelling, “Hey, hey! Who drank my soda mixer?! That was mine, it was under my coat like I marked it with my scent!”
“Your scent?” Mike coughed, nearly choking on his drink. “Jesus Christ.”
Nancy, cool and collected, held up her glass. “I didn’t use it, but I’m almost impressed you thought that would stop anyone.”
Steve laughed. A little breathless puff that cracked from his throat and made you turn to him, smiling as you saw the tiny, amazed look he gave himself.
You leaned in. “That’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.”
He didn’t answer. Just took your hand and brought it to his lips. Closed his eyes. Held it there.
And the whole time, presents were piling up. The dining table was now more wrapping paper than surface. Argyle had clearly gone with the biggest box just to be annoying. Eddie’s gift was in a velvet bag labeled FROM SATAN. Robin had wrapped hers in giant newspaper comics and scribbled messages between each strip. Jonathan’s box was completely duct-taped shut. You’d made yours look deceptively small and unassuming, tucked in plain white paper with a blue ribbon.
The color that Steve had told you, once-upon-a-time-ago, was: “a really pretty color, whenever it wasn’t upside down sky blue, more like lovers lake blue.”
The gifts kept coming because no one here was broke anymore.
Each of you, Steve especially, had been paid generously and quietly by the US government… like a sly thank you whispered through legalese. Owens had seen to it. Every diagnosis, every page of trauma documented and signed, had helped make it possible.
And then there was the old inheritance, the one Steve’s father tried to hide but couldn’t. That part, Steve still didn’t talk about. But it changed everything.
Steve caught you looking at the pile of gifts. He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.
“Later,” you whispered. “Cake first. Wishes come before unwrapping.”
A small, dimpled smile graced his features. It was almost a smirk.
In the living room, Lucas was poking around the newly installed sound system. “This is crazy. I’m serious. Dustin, can you believe you’d originally pitched a toolshed?”
“Shut up,” Dustin said, beaming. “This is better than any house I’ve ever seen.”
Mike snorted. “Dustin, your house is literally nice—”
“Well I’m staying, okay?” Dustin cut in quickly, spinning to Steve. “Look, I’m glad my mom got offered a teaching job in Nevada, but—” His voice cracked. “I just really wanna stay. And yes, before you ask? Yes, Claudia knows and yes, she is absolutely good with it. So yeah. Surprise, you're stuck with me. Forever. Cool?”
Steve was blinking rapidly as he nodded, lip wobbling.
“Dude.” Lucas elbowed him. “You’re gonna make him cry again, STAHP.”
“He should cry,” Max said, flopping on the couch with a smirk. “Because I’m not going back to my mom’s either. Not with her new boyfriend there. I’m here. This is my home now.”
“Welp,” Mike added, nudging Lucas. “Like I said. We’ll be here Monday through Friday. Go home on the weekends. The basement’s ours.”
Dustin looked at Steve, shy again. “You, uh… think I could take your bedroom?”
Steve lit up. He nodded harder now and held out a hand to high-five him.
Dustin nearly tripped over his own feet racing to it. “Best birthday ever!”
“Munson already turned the damn loft into his very own personal bachelor pad,” Robin grinned.
Eddie stood tall, arms wide. “Obviously. And I don’t care if I get married one day. She’ll live with us both. That’s just the deal.”
Jonathan raised his Harrington Honeydrop. “I feel like we should all just declare it officially. In front of this cake and God and the glitter booze.”
“Here, here,” Argyle said, already laying on the floor with a throw pillow under his head. “I live in that tiny room now. Commute’s a bitch. Don’t care. Staying.”
Nancy touched Steve’s shoulder softly. “Same.”
Robin lifted her glass. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Will stepped up and nodded quietly. “Safest place in the whole wide world.”
“We all stay,” Eleven stated, standing beside Max as she squeezed her hand.
Hopper smirked darkly. “Can you imagine Rick and Tricia’s faces if they knew just how occupied their old home is now?”
Joyce puffed out her lips. “Well, they built it big enough for it and chose to make it feel deserted.” She grinned at Steve. “But now? Me and Jim. El and Will… We’ll be old and gray and up in the clouds, that’s the only other home that we’re gonna have.”
Steve’s mouth opened, but no words came.
He just nodded fiercely with a wobbly smile.
Owens now leaned against the counter, sipping one of Murray’s honeydrops. “I’ll build another guest house if I have to. Say the word, Harrington.”
That made Steve sputter a laugh, and nod his head more. “The…word. The word. Word.”
Owens winked with a fat grin as Murray whooped with a straight face behind the bar. You pressed into your uncle's side, shaking, freshly crying, but smiling through every single tear.
Murray kissed the top of your head. “He’s good, kiddo.”
Then, after a while, when everyone had settled and the drinks had been topped off again, you dimmed the lights.
Then you brought the cake to the center of the room.
Robin lit each of the 22 candles with a matchstick in absolute reverence. No one joked. No one laughed.
Everyone gathered around as Steve sat down, and you stood behind him with your hands resting on both of his shoulders, steady and sure. And relieved to feel how he wasn’t rigid.
Dustin cleared his throat. “Okay, this time? Let’s all sing like normal people.”
“Laaaame,” Eddie monotoned.
Mike snorted, along with Max.
Then, in harmony, off-key but beautiful?
Happy birthday to you…
Steve stared at the flames. All 22 of them.
And then just before he blew them out…
He made a wish.
He didn’t say it.
But he believed it would come true.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Way Back
July 20, 1991
9:03 AM
Steve’s old bedroom now felt like a shell.
The furniture was still there — the same wide bed with the wooden headboard, the desk with a crack in one leg, the dresser that once held cologne bottles and cufflinks from a life that Steve had long since stopped pretending to want. The air smelled like lemon wood polish and old carpet. Faintly familiar. But the closet was empty now. His clothes, his records, his photos — all gone. Moved out to the pool house where his life had quietly started over.
But for now, he was here.
Seated cross-legged on the edge of his old bed… palms pressed flat to the comforter, eyes fixed on the grooves in the floorboards.
Owens sat across from him, not in a chair, but on the floor too. Legs folded, sleeves rolled, a thick folder untouched at his side.
Eleven was between them. Close enough to touch. Her hand was clasped with Steve’s. Her other rested in her lap, loose and steadied.
She wore a blindfold.
But now she sought answers that she wanted.
That her family wanted.
Soft white noise played gently in the background, but not loud or grating. Just faint, natural static. A recorded hum from a lake or a forest, impossible to tell. Speakers sat on the windowsill. Owens had said something about sensory grounding, about memory mapping and about creating an environment that let the mind wander back to the places it had hidden from.
And Steve…
Steve hadn’t spoken.
Not once. Not since they started.
Not in nearly forty minutes.
Owens had asked gentle, simple questions at first. Not loaded. Just curious. Just human.
“Do you remember what it smelled like in here when you were a teenager?”
“What kind of dreams did you used to have, in this bed?”
“Do you remember the first time you brought a friend over?”
No answers.
Only long, long silences.
But Owens didn’t fill them.
He just sat there with him. Not fidgeting. Not tapping a pen. Not rushing to push forward.
He let the quiet breathe.
And whenever Steve started to tremble… just barely, just under the skin… El would squeeze his hand.
Never urgently.
Always steady.
It kept him anchored.
“You know,” Owens said finally, his voice low, “when I first met you, I was told not to worry. They said you were just the babysitter.”
His smile was slow. Dry. Almost amused.
“I remember thinking, ‘He looks too young to carry the weight of the world.’ But you were already doing it.”
Steve’s eyes flicked toward him. But just barely.
Owens’s expression never wavered.
“You took beatings that weren’t yours to take. Shielded kids who didn’t belong to you. Fought monsters without backup. You did CPR on someone you loved after they were electrocuted by a fence you couldn’t see coming. You screamed into a gag until your voice broke. You swallowed guilt that wasn’t yours. You survived things that no one should survive.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. His free hand curled against the comforter. But still, he didn’t speak.
“You saved people,” Owens said softly. “But it wasn’t just about saving them, was it?”
A pause.
“You were trying to prove something.”
Steve’s eyes dropped to the floor again.
He blinked once.
Slowly.
And then Owens said, almost delicately: “You used to hate her.”
Steve flinched at that.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was thick. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
Eleven’s hand squeezed his tighter.
Owens didn’t raise his voice. “You hated her. And now you love her. That’s allowed. You’re allowed to change. To hurt. To struggle. You’re allowed to gently let go of old versions of yourself.”
Still, nothing.
Not a word.
But Steve was breathing harder now.
Eyes glassy.
Shoulders tense.
“You were beaten by soldiers,” Owens continued. “By Billy. By Jonathan, once.”
Steve looked up at that. Just barely.
Owens didn’t flinch. “Yes, Jonathan. That one time in the alleyway. Back in ’83. You remember it. You bled on the pavement while Nancy cried. You guys all kept that under wraps, but it happened. And you forgave him.”
Another pause.
“You’ve forgiven a lot of people, Steve. But you haven’t forgiven yourself.”
Steve’s throat worked. Still no words. But the tremble in his hand was growing.
Owens’s tone shifted — not sharp, but focused.
“You can’t stay here, son.”
Steve blinked.
Confused.
“Not here, I mean. Not in this… in-between.” Owens now gestured to his own temple. “Your body’s back. But your mind… your mind is still stuck inside the battlefield. Inside the static. Inside that moment the Upside Down finally… collapsed. You never left the smoke. You never stopped screaming. You’re still in the void.”
At that, El inhaled sharply. Her fingers tightened around Steve’s again. Owens looked at her, just briefly.
“He knows,” she said. Still blindfolded, still calm. “But he doesn’t know how to leave.”
Owens’s voice was quieter now. “Can you see it, El?”
She nodded. Slowly. “It’s dark. It’s like… pieces. He’s not whole yet.”
Silence.
Steve’s lips parted.
And then—
“I—I…” he whispered. Then he stopped. His breath hitched.
Owens didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Take your time.”
Steve licked his lips.
Tried again.
“I… I-I d… I d-don’t kn… know… how t-to—”
He broke off. Shaking.
But Owens leaned forward, voice as gentle as breath. “That’s okay. That’s good, Steve. You’re doing it.”
Steve closed his eyes. His shoulders shook. “I-I'm… s-stuck…”
“I know.”
“S-s-sorry,” Steve stammered.
“No,” Owens said firmly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Steve looked up. Eyes rimmed red. “I… I want to… c-come back…”
Eleven pulled off her blindfold. Her eyes were full of tears. She looked straight at Owens, and something passed between them. Something wordless. A deep, buried panic.
Owens nodded once.
“This goes deeper than trauma,” he said to her quietly. “This is… fragmentation.”
Eleven didn’t look away. “He’s fractured.”
“He can be put back together,” Owens said. “But only if he wants to be.”
Steve was staring at both of them now. His breathing still hitched. But he was here. His eyes were clearer than they had been in days and real effort was right there.
“You can do this,” Owens said, turning back to him. “But you’re going to have to want to.”
“I d-don’t…” Steve whispered, “k-know how…”
“We’ll help,” Eleven said gently.
Steve’s eyes met hers.
“I’ll stay right here,” she promised. “Even when it’s scary.”
Steve looked down again. His hand gripped hers tighter.
Owens didn’t speak for a long time after that.
He just let Steve breathe.
Let the static play.
Let the first real shift happen.
Not flashy. Not loud. Not a miracle.
But the tiniest, quietest crack of sunlight through a door that had been locked for a long, long time.
And for the first time in months…
Steve reached for the knob.
July 20, 1991 // 5:43 PM
The Henderson's House
Dustin’s bedroom looked like it had been ransacked by a tornado of memories.
Cardboard boxes were now stacked across the bed in messy towers, half-taped and overflowing with old comic books, D&D minis, tangled cables, mismatched socks, and T-shirts that hadn’t fit him since the seventh grade. The closet doors were wide open, revealing a whirlwind of jackets and shoes, and the floor was half-covered in childhood — board games, old report cards, a sketchpad with DO NOT LOOK, MOM scrawled across the front in red sharpie.
Steve sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed, folding clothes into a box with slowed, careful movements. His hands weren’t quite steady. There was a soft delay in everything he did — as though time moved differently around him today. Catatonia was curling at the edges of his body, invisible but heavy, and the mutism was back in full. But he was here. Present.
And smiling.
Even when it hurt.
“You don’t have to keep folding my shirts, man,” Dustin said, watching him from the closet doorway. “They’re just gonna get wrinkled anyway. You know I’m a disaster.”
Steve didn’t respond, but his mouth twitched up just a little more.
“You’re kind of a masochist for doing this with me, y’know,” Dustin added, pulling a shoebox down from the top shelf. “Like—this is actually the most annoying I’ve ever been, and I say that fully aware of my track record.”
Still no words. But Steve’s shoulders shook slightly in a silent laugh as he stacked another shirt into the box.
From the hallway, Claudia Henderson’s voice drifted in. “Dustin, sweetie, do you want me to label the boxes with the different room names? Like... bedroom, bathroom, total garbage—?”
“Mom,” Dustin groaned. “No offense, but your handwriting looks like a baby squirrel ran through an ink puddle.”
“That’s a yes to labels, then,” she called back, and Steve gave a slow blink and a gentle, grateful sigh as he heard her footsteps move through the house.
The house smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. There were cookies cooling in the kitchen, and the window AC hummed gently against the summer heat. Claudia’s voice moved closer as she walked in with a Sharpie tucked behind her ear and a roll of tape in her hands.
She smiled the second she saw Steve.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she beamed, soft and warm, “you didn’t have to come help today.”
Steve glanced up at her, eyes full and shining, and then nodded once.
“But I’m so glad you did,” she said, gently placing the tape on the bed. She walked over and pressed a hand to his shoulder, then leaned in and hugged him — slow and firm and safe.
Steve melted into it. Head bowed. Body slow. He didn’t cry, but his eyes closed like he was absorbing sunlight.
“You are such a good boy,” Claudia whispered fiercely into his hair. “You are a blessing, Steve Harrington. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
He nodded into her shoulder.
Still not speaking. But it didn’t matter.
Claudia smiled against his hair. “I know.”
Dustin was pretending not to look, but when Steve finally sat back again and resumed folding, he muttered, “Okay, if you’re gonna get all teary, at least pretend you’re doing it because I’m amazing.”
Steve blinked at him, crooked-smiled, and rolled a sock into a perfect ball with a kind of reverence that made Dustin huff.
“Dude, that sock had a hole in it when I was ten. You don’t gotta treat it like a museum piece.”
From outside the bedroom, the sound of your drill whirring echoed from the bathroom — sharp and cheerful, the way it always did when you were fixing something that no one else knew how to fix. You’d volunteered to patch up the sink tile while the guys packed, and it somehow made the whole afternoon feel less like a goodbye and more like a beginning.
Still, the truth hung in the room like a quiet weight.
Mrs. Henderson was moving to Nevada. A new teaching job. A new life. A new place far away from all of this — far from the grief, the worry, the past year of hell that had somehow ended in survival.
And Dustin… was staying.
He’d made that decision himself, with both quiet determination and zero hesitation. Sophomore year started in three weeks. He wasn’t leaving Steve. Or the gang. Or you. Or this town that's become his heartbeat. Claudia had been offered a fully furnished apartment by the district, with no extra space — and that was just fine.
Because Dustin wasn’t a little kid anymore.
“Honestly,” Dustin said, tossing a half-full box toward the door, “I think I’m more nervous about stealing your old room than anything else.”
Steve looked at him, brow raised.
“I mean, it’s got your stuff. Your memories. Your, like… vibe.” Dustin made vague hand motions. “I don’t wanna mess with that. I’ll probably keep your swim trophies up and stuff. And maybe like, build a new bookshelf, make it a little nerdier, but not too nerdy, y’know?”
Steve smiled. Broader now. He nodded at Dustin. Then pointed at the chest of drawers. Approval.
He reached out and slapped Steve’s hand.
Steve’s return was delayed — slow and a little trembly — but solid.
By the time everything was loaded into the back of your truck, you were wiping grout from your palms with a wet rag, grinning as Dustin tried to wedge the final box of his video games in sideways without snapping the lid.
“Oh my god,” you laughed. “That one’s just labeled ‘lol dark web.’ What even is in there, Henderson?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dustin said solemnly. “You don’t need that kind of liability.”
You snorted and leaned in to kiss Steve’s cheek, murmuring “there's my man,” but then you paused. Because Claudia had just stepped out onto the porch...
And she was holding a manila envelope.
“Bauman,” she chirped gently, approaching you first. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” you drawled, wiping your hands again. “What’s up, Mrs. H?”
Claudia glanced at Steve, who was watching her with a soft, confused expression. Then she handed the envelope to you. “There’s something I want him to have. Something I think he deserves.”
You looked inside.
Read the words.
Your mouth dropped slightly.
“Claudia…” you whispered.
“It's shared guardianship,” she cut in sweetly, quietly beaming. “That way, it's official. No worries about my trying to yank my son back from you all. Like some, like...” Her eyes light up as she gestures theatrically, giggling. “Crazy mama bear!”
Your eyes were round, glossed over.
Steve's were now better as he stared at Claudia with awestruck disbelief.
“Mrs. Henderson, we'd...”
You trailed off, shaking your head, swallowing thickly. You looked at Steve, who just kept staring at Claudia like she'd handed him over something impossible for him to dare wish for... let alone request.
The woman just looked between you both with the brightest smile, eyes crinkled while Dustin hoisted box after box into the car while grunting and whistling to himself.
“As long as it's alright with you, Stevie,” Claudia added quickly.
You shook your head, willing yourself to speak up on Steve's behalf. “Mrs. Henderson, he's... we are both more than fine with it!... but...”
Steve looked at you with the most tragically soft, vulnerable expression. He didn't know what to say. As usual. But he understood what was happening, loud and fucking clear, and he wanted to make sure that you got that. Wanted to make sure you asked Claudia the question on his mind.
So you did.
“Are you sure?” you asked her shakily, voice raw.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she winked. “This boy loves my son like he’s his own. And Dustin needs that. Needs him. And I trust you both.”
You blinked once. Then twice. And by the third time, tears betrayed you. Falling one at a time before you could stop them, gnawing at your bottom lip while nodding jerkily at her. Words failed you now, too.
Claudia stepped closer to Steve, her arms already out.
He stood still — staring at her.
And then she wrapped her arms around him again — warm and tight and complete — and whispered into his ear, “You’ve got him now, baby. You’ve got each other.”
Steve’s chest hitched.
She pulled back and handed him a pen. “Just sign. I’ve already signed. It’s real.”
His hand trembled as he took it. And then he bent down over the side of the truck bed, leaned the paper against a box, and signed his name with shaking fingers.
When he straightened back up, his eyes were wet.
No sobbing.
No collapse.
Just quiet, full, honest tears.
Claudia just giggled like crazy, tears of her own falling as the two of them embraced tightly again before she suddenly remembered her pie in the oven and took off running for the front door with a startle.
You sniffed miserably as you watched, mentally cursing yourself as you swiped your wrist across your nose. Fucking hell, why was everything emotional to you now????
Dustin closed the trunk with a whoop, turning around. “My lease signed yet or what?!”
You slipped an arm around Steve's waist and smiled up at him, eyes crinkling, nose scrunching fondly.
“Room’s yours now, Henderson,” you called over your shoulder.
“I’m gonna hang a motherfuckin’ lava lamp,” Dustin declared.
“Language,” you shot back.
But Steve was just smiling brightly now, tears on his cheeks, as he leaned into you and held the paperwork to his chest while walking towards the porch to make your way inside for a slice of freshly baked cinnamon apple pie before departure.
And for the first time in a long time…
Steve Harrington felt like someone who knew he had a future.
Story from the Washington Post here, non-paywall version here.
Washington Post stop blocking linksharing and shit challenge.
"The young woman was catatonic, stuck at the nurses’ station — unmoving, unblinking and unknowing of where or who she was.
Her name was April Burrell.
Before she became a patient, April had been an outgoing, straight-A student majoring in accounting at the University of Maryland Eastern Shore. But after a traumatic event when she was 21, April suddenly developed psychosis and became lost in a constant state of visual and auditory hallucinations. The former high school valedictorian could no longer communicate, bathe or take care of herself.
April was diagnosed with a severe form of schizophrenia, an often devastating mental illness that affects approximately 1 percent of the global population and can drastically impair how patients behave and perceive reality.
“She was the first person I ever saw as a patient,” said Sander Markx, director of precision psychiatry at Columbia University, who was still a medical student in 2000 when he first encountered April. “She is, to this day, the sickest patient I’ve ever seen.” ...
It would be nearly two decades before their paths crossed again. But in 2018, another chance encounter led to several medical discoveries...
Markx and his colleagues discovered that although April’s illness was clinically indistinguishable from schizophrenia, she also had lupus, an underlying and treatable autoimmune condition that was attacking her brain.
After months of targeted treatments [for lupus] — and more than two decades trapped in her mind — April woke up.
The awakening of April — and the successful treatment of other people with similar conditions — now stand to transform care for some of psychiatry’s sickest patients, many of whom are languishing in mental institutions.
Researchers working with the New York state mental health-care system have identified about 200 patients with autoimmune diseases, some institutionalized for years, who may be helped by the discovery.
And scientists around the world, including Germany and Britain, are conducting similar research, finding that underlying autoimmune and inflammatory processes may be more common in patients with a variety of psychiatric syndromes than previously believed.
Although the current research probably will help only a small subset of patients, the impact of the work is already beginning to reshape the practice of psychiatry and the way many cases of mental illness are diagnosed and treated.
“These are the forgotten souls,” said Markx. “We’re not just improving the lives of these people, but we’re bringing them back from a place that I didn’t think they could come back from.” ...
Waking up after two decades
The medical team set to work counteracting April’s rampaging immune system and started April on an intensive immunotherapy treatment for neuropsychiatric lupus...
The regimen is grueling, requiring a month-long break between each of the six rounds to allow the immune system to recover. But April started showing signs of improvement almost immediately...
A joyful reunion
“I’ve always wanted my sister to get back to who she was,” Guy Burrell said.
In 2020, April was deemed mentally competent to discharge herself from the psychiatric hospital where she had lived for nearly two decades, and she moved to a rehabilitation center...
Because of visiting restrictions related to covid, the family’s face-to-face reunion with April was delayed until last year. April’s brother, sister-in-law and their kids were finally able to visit her at a rehabilitation center, and the occasion was tearful and joyous.
“When she came in there, you would’ve thought she was a brand-new person,” Guy Burrell said. “She knew all of us, remembered different stuff from back when she was a child.” ...
The family felt as if they’d witnessed a miracle.
“She was hugging me, she was holding my hand,” Guy Burrell said. “You might as well have thrown a parade because we were so happy, because we hadn’t seen her like that in, like, forever.”
“It was like she came home,” Markx said. “We never thought that was possible.”
...After April’s unexpected recovery, the medical team put out an alert to the hospital system to identify any patients with antibody markers for autoimmune disease. A few months later, Anca Askanase, a rheumatologist and director of the Columbia Lupus Center,who had been on April’s treatment team, approached Markx. “I think we found our girl,” she said.
Bringing back Devine
When Devine Cruz was 9, she began to hear voices. At first, the voices fought with one another. But as she grew older, the voices would talk about her, [and over the years, things got worse].
For more than a decade, the young woman moved in and out of hospitals for treatment. Her symptoms included visual and auditory hallucinations, as well as delusions that prevented her from living a normal life.
Devine was eventually diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which can result in symptoms of both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. She also was diagnosed with intellectual disability.
She was on a laundry list of drugs — two antipsychotic medications, lithium, clonazepam, Ativan and benztropine — that came with a litany of side effects but didn’t resolve all her symptoms...
She also had lupus, which she had been diagnosed with when she was about 14, although doctors had never made a connection between the disease and her mental health...
Last August, the medical team prescribed monthly immunosuppressive infusions of corticosteroids and chemotherapy drugs, a regime similar to what April had been given a few years prior. By October, there were already dramatic signs of improvement.
“She was like ‘Yeah, I gotta go,’” Markx said. “‘Like, I’ve been missing out.’”
After several treatments, Devine began developing awareness that the voices in her head were different from real voices, a sign that she was reconnecting with reality. She finished her sixth and final round of infusions in January.
In March, she was well enough to meet with a reporter. “I feel like I’m already better,” Devine said during a conversation in Markx’s office at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, where she was treated. “I feel myself being a person that I was supposed to be my whole entire life.” ...
Her recovery is remarkable for several reasons, her doctors said. The voices and visions have stopped. And she no longer meets the diagnostic criteria for either schizoaffective disorder or intellectual disability, Markx said...
Today, Devine lives with her mother and is leading a more active and engaged life. She helps her mother cook, goes to the grocery store and navigates public transportation to keep her appointments. She is even babysitting her siblings’ young children — listening to music, taking them to the park or watching “Frozen 2” — responsibilities her family never would have entrusted her with before her recovery.
Expanding the search for more patients
While it is likely that only a subset of people diagnosed with schizophrenia and psychotic disorders have an underlying autoimmune condition, Markx and other doctors believe there are probably many more patients whose psychiatric conditions are caused or exacerbated by autoimmune issues...
The cases of April and Devine also helped inspire the development of the SNF Center for Precision Psychiatry and Mental Health at Columbia, which was named for the Stavros Niarchos Foundation, which awarded it a $75 million grant in April. The goal of the center is to develop new treatments based on specific genetic and autoimmune causes of psychiatric illness, said Joseph Gogos, co-director of the SNF Center.
Markx said he has begun care and treatment on about 40 patients since the SNF Center opened. The SNF Center is working with the New York State Office of Mental Health, which oversees one of the largest public mental health systems in America, to conduct whole genome sequencing and autoimmunity screening on inpatients at long-term facilities.
For “the most disabled, the sickest of the sick, even if we can help just a small fraction of them, by doing these detailed analyses, that’s worth something,” said Thomas Smith, chief medical officer for the New York State Office of Mental Health. “You’re helping save someone’s life, get them out of the hospital, have them live in the community, go home.”
Discussions are underway to extend the search to the 20,000 outpatients in the New York state system as well. Serious psychiatric disorders, like schizophrenia, are more likely to be undertreated in underprivileged groups. And autoimmune disorders like lupus disproportionately affect women and people of color with more severity.
Changing psychiatric care
How many people ultimately will be helped by the research remains a subject of debate in the scientific community. But the research has spurred excitement about the potential to better understand what is going on in the brain during serious mental illness...
Emerging research has implicated inflammation and immunological dysfunction as potential players in a variety of neuropsychiatric conditions, including schizophrenia, depression and autism.
“It opens new treatment possibilities to patients that used to be treated very differently,” said Ludger Tebartz van Elst, a professor of psychiatry and psychotherapy at University Medical Clinic Freiburg in Germany.
In one study, published last year in Molecular Psychiatry, Tebartz van Elst and his colleagues identified 91 psychiatric patients with suspected autoimmune diseases, and reported that immunotherapies benefited the majority of them.
Belinda Lennox, head of the psychiatry department at the University of Oxford, is enrolling patients in clinical trials to test the effectiveness of immunotherapy for autoimmune psychosis patients.
As a result of the research, screenings for immunological markers in psychotic patients are already routine in Germany, where psychiatrists regularly collect samples from cerebrospinal fluid.
Markx is also doing similar screening with his patients. He believes highly sensitive and inexpensive blood tests to detect different antibodies should become part of the standard screening protocol for psychosis.
Also on the horizon: more targeted immunotherapy rather than current “sledgehammer approaches” that suppress the immune system on a broad level, said George Yancopoulos, the co-founder and president of the pharmaceutical company Regeneron.
“I think we’re at the dawn of a new era. This is just the beginning,” said Yancopoulos."
✮ Summary : After being shattered by a cruel love, you became a living statue. But with a single touch, a gentle hand in the dark, you will begin to find your way back to the world.
✮ Contains : Mention of toxic relationship, bullying, reader enter a state of catatonia, angst
✮ Pairing : Ahn Suho x catatonic!reader
✮ Word Count : 10.4K
A/N : Okay guys I've working on this one for who knows which reason it just popped in my head and it's LONG... BUT DAMN I'm so SO proud of it
Catatonia : a psychomotor syndrome where the mind, overwhelmed by trauma, forces the body into a profound state of stillness. It is a terrifying, waking absence, where the soul becomes a silent observer trapped within a body that has chosen to shut down.
The hospital room was stark, sterile, and silent. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights above and the faint, rhythmic beeping of the IV pump beside her bed. She stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. A profound emptiness had taken root inside her, a void where her laughter, her joy, her very self used to be.
It had all started so simply, so innocently. A glance across a crowded hallway, a nervous conversation, the giddy excitement of becoming Seongje's girlfriend. Being with him felt like a title, a status symbol that brought both attention and a quiet, unsettling ownership.
People knew her as "Seongje's girl," and for a while, she was proud of it. She ignored the way his gaze often slid past her to linger on others, the way he laughed off the cruel jokes the Union made at her expense. He was a thrill, a force of nature, and she was so caught up in his orbit that she didn't realize she was being torn apart.
Sieun saw it from a distance. He'd catch glimpses of her, a ghost of her former self, walking through the halls with her shoulders hunched. Her once-bright eyes were now shadowed and dull.
He'd seen her once, sitting alone in the cafeteria, tracing patterns on her food tray while Seongje was across the room, openly flirting with some girl, his friends egging him on. The image stuck with him—the sight of her, so utterly alone in a room full of people, with the person she loved most treating her like an inconvenience.
The torment wasn't just emotional. The Union members, egged on by Seongje’s passive indifference, had found her an easy target. Small, cruel pranks escalated into constant harassment. Her locker was vandalized. Her books went missing.
Every day was a new form of psychological torture, and she had nowhere to turn. Seongje would just shrug it off, a smirk on his face. "Lighten up," he'd say. "It's just a joke."
The spark she once had, that vivacious, joyful light, was slowly extinguished. She became a shell. The girl who used to smile so easily now just stared. The girl who once filled a room with her energy was now a silent, withdrawn figure, retreating further and further into herself until she completely disappeared.
One day, she just didn't show up. Not at school, not at their usual meeting spot. She just... vanished. Seongje barely noticed at first, too preoccupied with his own fun. When he finally did, he was more annoyed than concerned. "Where did she go?" he'd grumble to his friends. "She's so dramatic."
He didn't know that she had finally reached her breaking point. She walked for hours, her mind a blur of hurt and betrayal, until her legs gave out and she collapsed on a quiet side street. She was found by a passing couple, their horrified faces a distant blur as they called for help.
When she woke up, she was in a hospital. But the trauma had been too much. The doctors tried to talk to her, to understand what had happened, but she was gone. Her mind, in a desperate act of self-preservation, had completely shut down. She wouldn't speak. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't even meet their gaze.
The hospital was ill-equipped to handle the depths of her psychological state. After a few days, a transfer was arranged. She was moved from the clinical silence of the general hospital to the more specialized, guarded silence of a psychiatric ward nearby.
The doctors there called it a catatonic state, a complete break from reality. Her body was present, but her mind was lost, hiding somewhere deep within itself, far from the pain and betrayal that had broken her.
The empty hallways and barred windows of the psychiatric hospital became her new reality, a self-imposed prison where she could finally be at peace, away from the boy who never saw her, and the world that let her fall.
A thick silence hung over the group, heavier than the summer humidity. They were at their usual hangout spot, but the easy banter was gone, replaced by a tense, somber mood.
"Did you hear?" Juntae's voice was a low rumble. "She's... still in there."
Humin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I saw her dad the other day. He said she hasn't said a word. The doctors don't know what to do."
Sieun stared at his hands, his knuckles white. He hadn't seen her in a while, but the image of her gaunt face and hollow eyes was burned into his memory. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He had seen what was happening, but he hadn't done anything. He had just watched from the sidelines as she crumbled.
Gotak, ever the stoic one, just shook his head. "Seongje's a piece of work. How could he just... do that to someone?"
A cold knot twisted in Seongje's gut. He had heard the whispers, the accusations, the pitying glances. He felt their judgment, sharp and unforgiving.
He had tried to forget about her, to move on as if she had never existed, but her absence was a gaping hole in his world. He told himself he was just annoyed, that she was just being dramatic. But deep down, a dark, unsettling feeling gnawed at him. He couldn't quite name it, but he knew it wasn't anger. It was something else, something much more frightening.
He had visited her once. He told himself it was just to prove to the others that he wasn't a monster, that he cared. He had walked into the sterile, white room and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. Her face was blank, her eyes vacant.
He tried to talk to her, to explain that he was sorry, that he didn't mean to hurt her, but the words felt hollow and fake. He had looked at her, at the broken shell of the girl he had once called his, and felt a rush of something he couldn't comprehend.
He had turned and walked away, a bitter taste in his mouth, telling himself that she was just a lost cause.
Sieun, however, couldn't stay away. He visited her every week, a silent vigil of remorse and compassion. He would sit in a chair by her bed and talk, even though he knew she wasn't really listening.
He would talk about Suho, his coma, about their fights and their triumphs, about the everyday things that filled their lives. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, a small part of her could hear him.
One day, he was sitting there, talking about a particularly frustrating day at school, when he saw it. A single tear, a tiny drop of moisture, rolled down her cheek. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it was enough.
It was a sign that she was still there, somewhere, trapped inside her own mind. It was a glimmer of hope, a fragile promise that one day, she might find her way back.
Sieun kept visiting, a silent, steady presence in her life. He was there for her not because he had to be, but because he felt a responsibility to her, a deep and abiding need to help her find her way back to the world.
He was her only connection to a life she had lost, a single thread holding her to a world that had so cruelly abandoned her. He would not let go.
The sterile air of the hospital room was broken only by the soft beeping of machines and the low murmur of conversation. After what felt like an eternity, Suho was finally awake. He had been through so much, and now, here he was, sitting up in bed, a ghost of his former self but with his sharp mind fully intact.
Sieun spent hours with him, catching him up on the years he’d lost. He talked about the Union, about Humin, Hyuntak, and Juntae, and about the brutal, everyday reality of their school.
One day, a quiet moment fell between them. Suho, his voice a little hoarse from disuse, said, “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
Sieun nodded, a heavy feeling settling in his chest. “Yeah. We all have.”
He hesitated for a long moment, then decided to bring up something he hadn't yet mentioned. "There's something else, though," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "Something... or someone."
Suho turned his head, a question in his eyes.
"Seongje’s ex-girlfriend," Sieun said. "She was with him, but he just... broke her. He let the Union mess with her, and he never did anything about it."
Suho’s face hardened. "The same Seongje you told me about? The one who runs with the Union?"
"Yeah," Sieun confirmed. "She was so full of life, but she just... faded. She went crazy from it all, and she's in a psychiatric hospital now. She won't talk to anyone. She just stares into space."
Suho was silent for a while, processing the story. "That's terrible. How could he do that to someone?"
"He's a monster," Sieun said, his voice laced with venom. "I've been visiting her. She's completely shut down. It's like no one's home."
"What's her name?" Suho asked.
"Y/n," Sieun replied, the name feeling heavy on his tongue.
A thoughtful expression crossed Suho's face. "And you said she won't talk to anyone, right? Not even you?"
"No. Not a word," Sieun confirmed. "I just sit there and talk to her, hoping something gets through. I even talked about you and our crew, about everything that happened."
Suddenly, an idea sparked in Sieun's mind. He had been visiting her, trying to reach her with words, but what if words weren't the answer?
"I have an idea," Sieun said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Maybe you could visit her. She’s not listening to me, maybe because I’m a part of all this... this world that broke her. But you're different. You’re from before all of this. You're a clean slate."
Suho looked at him, his brow furrowed in thought. "You think that will make a difference?"
"I don't know," Sieun admitted, his hope fragile. "But she needs help. We can’t just let her stay like this. You’re the only one who can talk to her without all the baggage. Please, Suho. It's the only thing I can think of."
Suho closed his eyes, considering. The story of this broken girl resonated with a deep, personal empathy. He knew what it was like to be trapped, to feel like a prisoner in his own body. He had spent years in a silent, dreamless state, and now, finally awake, he felt a strange kinship with this girl.
"Okay," Suho finally said, opening his eyes. "Let's do it.”
The hospital grounds were more of a park than a garden, a vast expanse of manicured lawn bisected by winding asphalt paths. Sieun navigated Suho's wheelchair with an easy familiarity, the rhythmic squeak of the wheels a steady counterpoint to their silence. Suho, still thin and pale, watched the world go by with an intensity that belied his physical weakness.
Everything was new to him, every tree and every blade of grass a detail he had missed. It was a strange, silent reunion, a fresh start in a place of confinement.
"We're here," Sieun said, stopping in front of a small, discreet building nestled among the trees. The windows were different here—a little too high, a little too thick.
He left Suho for a moment, disappearing inside to talk to the nurses. He’d made this walk countless times, but today was different. Today, he wasn’t just here to talk; he was here to retrieve her, to introduce a new variable into a seemingly unsolvable equation.
He waited patiently as the nurses, their faces etched with a familiar mixture of pity and resignation, went to get her. They had tried everything, every therapy and every conversation, and she remained a ghost in her own body. They’d given up on her, and he could see it in their weary eyes.
When they returned, she was in a wheelchair, too. Her posture was the same as it had been on the hospital bed—shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed. She was present, but not here. She looked like a doll, perfectly still and unresponsive.
The nurses wheeled her out, her chair moving in a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if it were a different kind of machine from the one that had beeped beside her bed.
Sieun took her wheelchair and positioned it beside Suho’s. For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of the breeze and the gentle creak of the chairs. He looked from one to the other, the stark contrast between them a painful sight. Suho, with his sharp, observant eyes, and Y/n, with hers vacant and distant.
"This is Suho," Sieun said, his voice soft. "He's the guy I was telling you about. He just woke up." He paused, looking at Suho. "And this is Y/n."
Suho’s gaze was kind but direct. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet understanding. "Hey, Y/n," he said, his voice a little hoarse, but warm. "It's good to meet you. Sieun told me a lot about you. He said you're a good person."
Suho nodded slowly, his mind piecing together the fragments Sieun was offering. "What happened to Seongje, by the way ?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. Sieun’s expression soured. "He just… disappeared. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. No one’s seen him. Not the Union, not his friends. He just vanished, like a bad dream."
Suho looked over at Y/n, a new kind of intensity in his eyes. He knew what it was like to be torn apart, to have a part of yourself taken from you. Seongje’s disappearance didn’t feel like a relief; it felt like a coward's escape. He had broken someone and then just walked away from the pieces, leaving others to deal with the aftermath.
"That’s how they are," Suho said to Sieun, his voice low and sharp. "They do their damage, and then they leave. They don't stick around to see what they've done."
He reached out and gently took one of Y/n’s still, cold hands. Her skin felt like marble. "We’re not going to do that, Y/n. We’re going to stay. We're going to be here."
Sieun watched, his heart a raw, open wound. He had been visiting her for weeks, but in a single moment, Suho had found a way to connect, to speak a language she might be able to understand. They were both prisoners—one by his body, the other by her mind—and in that shared experience, there was a fragile promise of hope.
"He's a menace, really," Suho continued, his tone shifting to a more conversational one, as if he were talking to a fully present person. "You have no idea how much trouble he gets into. You should’ve seen him when we were at Byeoksan. The way he took out those guys with just a few books and a pen. It was unreal. He’s a total genius, you know? He just uses it for fighting instead of studying sometimes."
He looked at Sieun with a wry smile, and Sieun, to his own surprise, found himself smiling back. They weren't just talking to Y/n. They were talking to each other, a broken circle of friends that was slowly, painstakingly, beginning to mend.
Days bled into a routine of silent visits and hushed conversations in the hospital garden. Suho’s wheelchair became a fixture beside Y/n’s, a quiet, unmoving testament to Sieun’s fragile hope. They talked about anything and everything: the school, the fights, the small victories.
Suho, with his sharp observations and dry wit, and Sieun, with his calm, steady presence, formed a small, protective bubble around her. Y/n remained a silent spectator, her eyes vacant, her hands still.
One sunny afternoon, Sieun decided to change the script. He walked into the psychiatric ward with a different energy. It was time to bring in the rest of the crew. When he got back to the hospital garden, they were all there, a mismatched group of boys looking awkward and out of place among the meticulously maintained flowerbeds.
Humin stood with his hands in his pockets, his usual restless energy contained. Juntae, ever the loyal friend, stood beside him, looking more serious than usual. And Hyuntak… he looked at Suho with a mixture of respect and a kind of mischievous anticipation.
Suho’s face broke into a rare smile when he saw them. It was a genuine, unguarded expression that made him look years younger. "Look who finally decided to show up," he said to Sieun, his voice full of warmth.
The introductions were a little stiff at first. Suho, used to being the leader, took charge, his sharp mind already assessing each of them. He had heard about them from Sieun, but now he was seeing them for himself. "So, this is the infamous Humin," he said, holding out a hand. "Sieun said you're a brawler."
Humin grunted a response, a flicker of his usual cockiness returning. "You're the legend Sieun won't shut up about."
Juntae, more reserved, simply nodded in greeting. "It's an honor, Suho. We've been wanting to meet you."
Hyuntak, however, was quiet at first, just sizing Suho up. When Humin started talking, Hyuntak’s smirk grew. He would often tease Humin and Suho, pointing out the ridiculousness of their obsession with fighting.
Sieun wheeled Y/n’s chair closer, positioning her so she was a part of the circle, not just an observer. "And this is Y/n," he said, his voice soft. "She's... one of us now."
The boys looked at her, their usual brashness replaced by a somber quiet. She was a physical reminder of the darkness they had all faced, the kind of psychological warfare they had all been subjected to. They saw her and they saw a part of themselves, a silent testament to the cruelty they had once been a part of.
Humin, surprisingly, was the first to break the silence. He started talking about a recent fight, recounting it with his characteristic bravado, exaggerating every punch and every maneuver.
He and Suho, despite their differences, fell into a comfortable rhythm, their shared love for strategy and combat evident in their conversation. Suho, with his sharp, analytical mind, would interject with a clever observation, and Humin would respond with a boisterous laugh.
"This one guy, he thought he was a big shot just 'cause he was bigger than me," Humin said, gesturing wildly. "So I just went for his leg, you know? Knocked him right off balance. Didn't even have to throw a punch."
Suho smirked. "Amateurs always go for the head. It's too predictable."
They went back and forth like that, two different kinds of fighters finding common ground. Juntae and Hyuntak, initially quiet, started to get comfortable too. Juntae started talking about his plans for the future, about a new path he was considering. Hyuntak, ever the follower, chimed in with a few comments, his anxiety slowly giving way to a more relaxed posture.
The group dynamic, so broken for so long, began to mend, creating a safe space in the sterile environment of the hospital garden. They were a motley crew of misfits, but in that moment, they were a family. They laughed, they argued, and they talked about their hopes and fears, all while a silent figure sat in the center of their circle.
And then, it happened. It was so small, so subtle, that Sieun almost missed it. Humin was making a particularly ridiculous face while recounting a story, and Suho was laughing, a sound that was still a little rusty but full of genuine mirth. For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/n's head tilted.
Then, her eyes, which had been so dull and vacant for so long, shifted. A single, almost imperceptible sparkle—a tiny glimmer of light—danced in their depths before fading away. It was gone in an instant, but it was there. It was enough.
For weeks, the routine held. The hospital garden became their unofficial meeting place, a sanctuary where the outside world and its cruel realities faded. Days blurred into a month, then two, marked by the slow but steady progress of Suho's recovery. The wheelchair, once a symbol of his confinement, was now a thing of the past. He could walk on his own, still a little unsteady, but strong enough.
This newfound freedom sparked an idea in him. The group visits were good, but he felt a growing need to see her alone. He had grown fond of Y/n's silent company, of the quiet understanding that had blossomed between them. It was a connection born from a shared experience of being trapped, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.
One afternoon, he walked to the psychiatric ward alone. The sterile halls felt different without Sieun and the others. This was a place of quiet suffering, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of it. When he entered her room, the silence was absolute. She was sitting in her wheelchair, staring at the wall, her hands resting limply in her lap.
He didn't bother with small talk. He just pulled up a chair and sat beside her, his presence a steady, solid anchor in the emptiness of the room. He watched her, and for the first time, he noticed the small details. The way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks, the faint scar on her hand that he hadn't seen before. He wondered how much of her had been lost, and how much was still there, hiding beneath the surface.
He began to talk, not about school or fights, but about himself. He talked about his years in a coma, the strange, silent world he had been trapped in. He spoke of the frustration, the feeling of screaming without a voice, of being a prisoner in his own mind. He felt a deep, profound empathy for her, a kinship that transcended words.
"It's like being in a box, isn't it?" he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "You can see the outside, but you can't touch it. You can hear them, but they can't hear you. It's the loneliest thing in the world."
He reached out and gently took her hand. It was still cold, but he held it anyway, his thumb stroking her knuckles in a soft, rhythmic motion. "But I got out," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "And you will, too. I'll be here until you do."
For the first time since he'd started visiting her alone, he felt a flicker of hope. He had felt it before, that brief sparkle in her eyes when the others were there, but now, the feeling was different. It was a quiet certainty, a promise that he would not break. He would wait for her, and he would not let her fall.
The solo visits became a new ritual, a quiet counterpoint to the boisterous group sessions. Suho would arrive alone, no longer a prisoner of his wheelchair but a steadfast presence in her silent world. He would talk about his day, about the mundane realities of his new life, and sometimes, he would just sit in silence, a hand gently on her arm. He wasn't waiting for a grand gesture, just a sign—any sign—that she was still in there.
His patience was rewarded with small, almost imperceptible shifts. The first was a simple head tilt, a gesture that began when he was recounting a particularly funny story about Sieun and Humin getting into a ridiculous argument over a lost wallet. It was a slight, almost bird-like movement, but it was enough to make Suho's heart seize in his chest.
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on her. She returned to her motionless state just as quickly, but the moment had been a monumental victory.
From then on, he found himself watching her more closely than ever. He noticed that she would follow his movements with her eyes, a subtle shifting of her gaze from his face to his hands as he gestured.
She wasn’t just staring into space anymore; she was observing. The world wasn't a blur to her; it was a series of small, intriguing details.
One day, he walked over to her bed and began to talk about a song he'd been listening to, a melancholy melody he had loved even before he fell into his coma. He hummed the tune, a low, melodic sound that filled the sterile room. As he did, he saw it.
Her eyes, those vacant, dull eyes he had come to know so well, looked at him directly. They held a fleeting moment of recognition, a soft, almost painful flicker of light.
Then, as he continued to hum, she shifted. Her fingers, which had been curled into her palms for weeks, slowly uncurled. She didn't move them, but the simple act of their straightening was a testament to her conscious mind.
He kept humming, his voice unwavering, and he reached out, gently taking her hand and placing it in his own. Her touch was still cold, but now it felt different. It was the hand of a person, not a statue.
Suho didn't know what it meant, but he knew this: he was reaching her. He was pulling her back, one small, impossible moment at a time. The world was beginning to fill with color again, and he was the one holding the brush.
The change, when it came, was so subtle that anyone else might have missed it. But Sieun and the others had become accustomed to reading the silent language of the hospital room, a dialect of small gestures and subtle shifts.
It was a quiet afternoon, and the whole group was gathered in the garden. Suho sat on the bench beside Y/n's wheelchair, talking about an old comic book he used to read. The others were in a loose circle around them, their conversation a low murmur. Hyuntak was teasing Humin about a bad haircut, and Juntae was listening with a rare smile on his face.
As Suho spoke, his voice low and steady, Y/n's eyes, once vacant, now followed his every movement. When he paused to flip a page in the comic book, her gaze went from his face to his hands, tracking the motion. It was a fluid, natural movement, so unlike her former stillness.
Sieun saw it first. He was mid-sentence, talking to Humin, when his eyes snagged on Y/n's gaze. He stopped talking, his expression one of shocked, quiet awe. Humin, catching his friend's stunned silence, followed his gaze. He watched as Y/n's head, which had been perfectly still, tilted slightly, as if she were contemplating something Suho had said.
Hyuntak and Juntae noticed the shift in the atmosphere. The easy banter died down, replaced by a tense, focused silence. They watched Y/n, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.
Suho, oblivious to the scrutiny, kept talking. He reached out and gently took her hand, just as he did during his solo visits. This time, however, Y/n's fingers didn't just uncurl—they twitched. It was a tiny, involuntary spasm, a small sign of life. Then, as Suho continued to speak, she slowly, painfully, tightened her grip on his hand. It wasn't a firm grip, just a slight pressure, but to everyone in the group, it felt like an earthquake.
Humin let out a shaky breath, his usual cockiness completely gone. Juntae's eyes welled up with tears. Hyuntak, for once, was speechless. They had watched her crumble, and they had come to accept the possibility that she might never return. But now, here she was, her grip a silent testament to her presence, a faint light in the darkness.
Suho looked down at their joined hands, a small, triumphant smile on his face. He looked up and met Sieun’s gaze. It was a look that said, "I told you so."
And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all understood. Their collective guilt, their silent regret, had been transformed into something else: a fragile, powerful hope. They weren't just a group of boys anymore. They were a lifeline, and they had just felt a tug from the other side.
The group visits continued to be a mix of low-key banter and silent observation. Sieun and the others watched with bated breath, their eyes constantly on Y/n, looking for the next sign of life. They saw the head tilts and the way her eyes followed their movements, but the progress seemed to stall. What they didn't know was that the real breakthroughs were happening in the quiet intimacy of Suho's solo visits.
When he was alone with her, Suho felt a new kind of freedom. He could talk about things he couldn't with the others, about his own nightmares and the quiet terror of waking up to a world that had moved on without him. He shared his deepest fears with her, knowing that she was the one person who would understand the feeling of being trapped in a silent, solitary existence.
One afternoon, he brought her a small sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. He sat down beside her, his chair close enough that their knees brushed. He opened the sketchbook to a blank page. "I'm not much of an artist," he said, "but my grandma and I used to love drawing with me. She'd draw a line, and I'd draw the next one. Maybe we can try that."
He took a red pencil and drew a simple, crooked line on the page. He then placed the pencil in her still hand, his own hand guiding hers. He waited. For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to take the pencil away when he felt a small, almost imperceptible pressure from her hand. Slowly, painstakingly, she drew a single, shaky blue line that connected to his. It was a small, childlike scribble, but it was there. She had responded. She had drawn a line to meet his.
He didn't make a sound. He just looked at the paper, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence in the room was now different. It was no longer empty, but filled with a new, quiet life. He knew this was the first step, a fragile bridge built between her mind and the world she had left behind. He continued the game, drawing lines and letting her connect them, a silent conversation in color.
The next time the group visited, they saw her holding the sketchbook, her fingers curled around the pencils. They exchanged stunned glances, a mixture of awe and confusion on their faces. They couldn't understand how she had gotten to this point.
How did this happen? But Suho just smiled. He knew. It had happened in the silence, in the small, beautiful moments when she was finally able to connect with someone who truly understood.
The sketchbook became a symbol of their fragile hope. When the group visited and saw Y/n holding it, her fingers curled around the pencils, a stunned silence fell over them. Juntae’s mouth fell open. Humin’s usual bravado vanished, replaced by a quiet awe. Even Hyuntak, ever the stoic observer, looked at Suho with a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect.
When Y/n was back in her room and the boys were gathered in Suho's chamber, the questions came pouring out. Sieun was the first to speak.
"What did you do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "How did you do that?"
Suho was lying on his hospital bed, propped up by pillows. He looked at them, a small, knowing smile on his face. "I just gave her a pencil," he said simply. "She did the rest."
Humin scoffed, but there was no real malice in his tone. "Yeah, right. She just picked it up and started drawing? It's been months, man. The nurses said she was a lost cause."
"They've tried everything," Juntae added, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Therapy, medication... nothing worked."
Suho sat up, leaning forward slightly. He spoke to them not as a patient, but as a leader, the calm authority he'd always possessed beginning to re-emerge. "They treated her like a patient. I just treated her like a person." He looked at each of them, his gaze sharp and direct. "She wasn't gone. She was just hiding. I gave her a way to come back out."
They fell silent, absorbing his words. The unspoken guilt that had hung over them for months began to lift, replaced by a new, collective purpose. They realized that their visits, their seemingly pointless conversations, had been a part of it too. They had been building a world for her to return to, and Suho had simply found the first key.
Meanwhile, in the psychiatric ward, the nurses were buzzing. They had seen Y/n for weeks, a silent statue in her wheelchair, a ghost in the hospital halls. They had lost hope, resigned to her catatonic state.
But now, she was holding a sketchbook. A small, shaky drawing of a flower was on the page. They looked at each other, their faces a mix of wonder and disbelief.
"She hasn't done anything like this since she came here," one nurse whispered, her eyes wide. "Not a single gesture, not a sound."
They didn't understand it. They couldn't explain it with their medical knowledge or their years of experience. All they knew was that the boy in the other building, the one who had just woken up from a coma, had done what they couldn't. He had reached through the silence and found a way to her.
The next time they all gathered in the hospital garden, the atmosphere was different. The forced cheerfulness was gone, replaced by a deep-seated hope.
They all brought something for her. Humin, surprisingly, had a small, worn soccer ball. Juntae brought a collection of his favorite manga. Hyuntak, in his own way, had brought a bag of chips.
Suho wheeled her chair into their circle, and as he settled into his spot on the bench, he placed the sketchbook on her lap. She didn't draw, but her fingers occasionally brushed the cover, a small, subtle acknowledgment.
The boys talked, their voices a little softer, their movements a little less frantic. They knew now that she was listening, and they spoke with a new kind of purpose, weaving a tapestry of their lives for her to return to.
Suho, who had taken to observing the nurses' shifts and routines, noticed that they, too, had changed. The weary resignation on their faces was gone. They would pass by her room and give her a small, hopeful smile.
They would bring her a glass of water and wait a little longer to see if she would take it. They had been given a new reason to believe, and they treated her not as a lost cause, but as a person on the cusp of a breakthrough.
One afternoon, Suho was alone with her in her room. He was talking about his grandma, the one who had been so devastated by his accident. He spoke of the small details, the way her grandma would hum a specific tune when she was happy, and the way she would chew on his lip when she was nervous.
As he spoke, he felt a small pressure on his hand. He looked down and saw that Y/n had taken his hand and was holding it, her grip surprisingly firm.
He continued to talk, and for the first time, she turned her head and looked at him directly. Her eyes were still clouded with a heavy sorrow, but they weren't vacant. They held a raw, painful light, and for the first time, Suho knew she was truly there.
He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb tracing the faint scar on her knuckle. "It's okay," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "You're safe. We're here."
A single tear, a tiny drop of pure emotion, rolled down her cheek. It was a silent testament to the pain she had endured and the hope she was finally allowing herself to feel. The dam was breaking, one tear at a time. It was a long way from a smile, or a word, but it was a beginning. A slow, painful, and beautiful return.
The tear was a turning point. It was a wordless confession of pain, a release of the agony she had held inside for so long. Suho didn't push her. He just sat with her, his presence a silent shield against the world that had broken her.
The next day, he brought a small, worn music player and a pair of headphones. He placed them on her lap and pressed play. It was a familiar melody, a quiet, soothing tune he had loved for years.
The next few days were a blur of small miracles. Her head would tilt in the direction of the music. Her hands would fidget with the worn edges of the sketchbook. She would even meet the gaze of the nurses, a small, tentative flicker of recognition in her eyes.
The nurses began to talk to her in a softer, gentler tone. The air in the ward, which had been heavy with despair, was now filled with a fragile, burgeoning hope.
Then, one afternoon, when the group was visiting, it happened. They were all talking, their voices a familiar, comforting chorus. Humin was bragging about a fight he'd won, exaggerating his prowess to a ridiculous degree. Hyuntak was, of course, giving him a hard time about it, and Suho was just listening, a slight smirk on his face.
"So I was like," Humin said, puffing out his chest, "I was like, 'You wanna go? Let's go!'"
Hyuntak rolled his eyes. "You probably just tripped and fell on him, Humin."
A laugh, a sharp, surprised sound, erupted from the group. It was a sound they hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime. They all looked at Y/n, stunned into silence. Her face was still, but her shoulders were shaking with silent laughter. A single, choked-off giggle escaped her lips, a tiny, almost inaudible sound.
Then, from her, came a whisper. A single, breathy word that was both a question and a statement.
"S-Suho...?"
It was the first word she had spoken in months. It was a sound that broke the stillness, a fragile, beautiful note in a symphony of silence. Suho's eyes widened. He had expected her to talk, but he hadn't expected to be the first one she called out to. He looked at her, and for the first time, he saw not a patient, not a broken girl, but a person, a friend who had found her way back.
"I'm here," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here."
And in that moment, in the quiet of the hospital garden, they all knew. The ghost was gone. She was finally, truly, back.
The first word was a dam breaking. After that, the progress was slow, but constant. Y/n began to speak in hushed, hesitant whispers, her voice a little rusty from disuse. She’d ask simple questions, her gaze still a bit clouded, but her curiosity was returning.
She'd ask about a song on the radio, or a character in a book, and each question felt like a small, triumphant victory. The boys, overjoyed, would answer her with a patience they never knew they had. They’d explain the plot of a manga, or the rules of a game, their voices gentle and reassuring.
Her physical recovery was just as slow, and just as miraculous. It started with her hands. She began to use the colored pencils with a purpose, her lines no longer shaky and tentative, but firm and deliberate.
She drew pictures of things she had lost—a tree with brilliant green leaves, a dog with a happy, wagging tail. The nurses would watch, their faces a mix of professional astonishment and personal wonder. They had documented every small change, every flicker of life.
One afternoon, during a solo visit with Suho, she tried to stand. Her legs, which had been dormant for months, trembled beneath her. Suho didn't try to help her. He just knelt in front of her, his hands hovering, ready to catch her if she fell. He looked at her not with pity, but with a quiet challenge in his eyes.
He had been through the same process, the painful, frustrating journey of rebuilding a body from scratch. He knew that she had to do it on her own.
"You can do it," he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. "I know you can."
She took a shaky step, then another. The world swayed around her. She was scared, but she didn’t stop. She took a step, and then another, until she was standing, a little unsteady, but on her own.
Suho reached out and took her hands, his touch grounding her. She looked at him, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched her lips. She had taken herself in her hands again.
Meanwhile, the group had a new kind of conversation. They talked about Y/n, but also about the boy who had put her there. The subject of Seongje came up one day when they were talking about the school union. Humin was bragging about how they had all but disbanded since Seongje's disappearance.
"It's like they lost their leader, their king," Humin said, a proud smirk on his face.
Suho’s face hardened. He had never liked the idea of a king, a person who ruled through fear and intimidation. He looked at Sieun, then at the others, his gaze sharp and direct.
"He wasn't a king," Suho said, his voice cold. "He was just a bully. A coward."
The silence was thick with the weight of his words. They all knew what he was talking about. Seongje had been a force of nature, a terrifying kind of power. But what kind of power breaks a person and then disappears? He had run away from the consequences of his actions. He was a ghost, a bad memory that had vanished.
"He's a piece of work," Humin said, a somber note in his voice. "We haven't seen him since. It's like he just fell off the face of the earth."
They all knew he was gone, but his absence was a constant presence, a reminder of the darkness they had escaped and the fragile light they were trying to build. He had broken Y/n, but in doing so, he had created an unbreakable bond between a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family.
The next time the group gathered in the hospital garden, they were a little early, sitting on a bench and talking amongst themselves. They were waiting for Sieun, who was bringing Y/n down from her room.
The usual low hum of their conversation was replaced by a more tense silence. They were all on edge, a collective bundle of nerves, waiting to see what new sign of progress she would show.
Then, they saw them. At the top of the path, where the double doors of the psychiatric ward opened, Suho emerged. But he wasn't alone. He was walking, his gait steady and confident, and beside him was Y/n.
She was on her own two feet, her shoulders no longer hunched, but straight. She walked with a slow, deliberate pace, but she was walking. She wasn't holding his hand, but she was close enough that their arms brushed.
Juntae's mouth dropped open. Humin, ever the dramatic one, let out a low whistle. Hyuntak just stared, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration. They all looked at Sieun, their faces a mix of confusion and awe. Sieun just smiled, a quiet, knowing expression on his face.
The sight of them walking side-by-side, two people who had been broken by the world and were now mending each other, was a powerful one. They walked toward the group, and as they got closer, the boys saw something in Suho's eyes.
It was a fierce, protective light, a look that said he would do anything to keep her safe. His whole demeanor had changed. He wasn't just a friend anymore; he was a guardian.
When they reached the bench, Y/n didn't sit down. She just stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, and looked at each of them. A small, shy smile touched her lips.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice still soft, but clear.
They all scrambled to their feet, their usual boisterous energy replaced by an awkward silence. They didn't know what to say. Y/n had always been a ghost to them, a silent figure in a wheelchair. Now, she was standing, talking, and looking at them. She was a person, with a past full of pain, but a future full of possibility.
Sieun watched his friends, his heart swelling with a quiet, powerful sense of accomplishment. He saw the way Humin looked at her, no longer with pity, but with a new kind of respect. He saw the way Juntae’s shoulders relaxed, the guilt he had carried for so long finally beginning to lift. And he saw the way Hyuntak, ever the stoic, gave a small, genuine nod of approval.
His plan had worked. His idea, so fragile and so desperate, had not just saved a life, but had also changed the lives of his friends. He had brought them all together, a group of misfits who had found a new kind of family, a new kind of purpose. They had all been broken in their own ways, but they had come together to help her mend. And in doing so, they had begun to heal themselves.
The nurses stood in a small group near the hospital entrance, their usual professional calm replaced by hushed whispers and astonished gazes. They had seen countless patients come and go, had witnessed every type of psychological trauma, but this… this was unprecedented.
They had given up on Y/n, labeling her condition as a severe catatonic state with no hope for recovery. Now, she was not only walking but smiling, a shy, almost painful ghost of the girl she once was.
They saw Suho at her side, his presence a steady anchor. He wasn't just a friend; he was a lifeline. They remembered him, the quiet, formidable young man who had spent years in a silent coma. And they saw the way he looked at her—not with pity, but with a fierce protectiveness that spoke volumes. He had done what years of therapy and medication could not. He had simply given her a reason to return.
Sieun watched Suho and Y/n, his heart filled with a mixture of pride and a quiet understanding. He had seen the subtle shifts in Suho’s demeanor, the way his gaze softened when he spoke of her, the way he seemed to carry a new kind of purpose.
He knew, long before the others did, that Suho had found a kindred spirit in her. Suho had been a prisoner in his own mind, and Y/n a prisoner in hers. They had a shared history of isolation and silent suffering, a bond forged in the crucible of their respective traumas.
Sieun had brought them together, hoping to give her a chance, but he never could have anticipated the profound connection that would form. He saw the way Suho looked at her, and in his eyes, he saw not just hope, but a deep, unspoken affection. He saw his friend, so long a solitary figure, finally finding a place for his heart to land.
The contrast was stark, a painful testament to the boy she had left behind and the boys who had brought her back. They looked at her now and saw not the gaunt, hollow-eyed girl who had walked the halls beside Seongje, but a survivor.
They remembered the way she had been a mere shadow in Seongje's orbit, her shoulders hunched as she retreated further and further into herself. She was a title, "Seongje's girl," and it was a title that had been a slow, methodical erasure of her very self. She had been an object, something to be possessed and then discarded.
The cruel pranks, the passive indifference of her so-called boyfriend, had worn her down until she was a ghost, a shell of the person she once was.
But now, she stood before them, a living, breathing testament to her own resilience. She was no longer a ghost but a person. She wasn't just "Suho's girl" or "Sieun's friend"; she was Y/n. The light in her eyes, so long extinguished, was back. It was a fragile light, but it was there, and it was hers alone.
The hospital garden was a place of quiet solitude, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze the only sound between them. Suho and the others had left for the day, leaving Sieun and Y/n alone. It was a comfortable silence, a truce between two people who had a profound, unspoken understanding.
Sieun was happy to just be there, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He had taken a chance on her, on an idea that seemed impossible to everyone else, and the results were a testament to his own strength and compassion.
He felt no need to speak, content with the easy stillness. He had seen the way his friends had changed, the way their apathetic silence had been replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He saw the new light in their eyes, a glimmer of purpose that had been missing for so long. He knew, with a deep certainty, that he had done the right thing.
Then, she broke the silence. Her voice was soft, a little rusty from disuse, but clear.
"Sieun," she said, her voice a gentle murmur. "Thank you. For everything."
He turned to look at her, a little surprised. She wasn't looking at him, but at the sky, a peaceful, far-off look in her eyes. It was a simple statement, but it carried the weight of everything they had been through. It was a thank you for his compassion, for his unwavering belief, for his quiet refusal to let her disappear.
He didn't know what to say. He didn't feel like a hero, just a boy who had reached out his hand to another person who was drowning. He looked at her, at the small, genuine smile on her face, and felt a rush of emotion so powerful it took his breath away.
"You're welcome," he finally managed to say, his voice a little hoarse. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
The silence returned, but it was different now. It was a silence filled with gratitude and understanding, a peaceful moment between two people who had found each other in the wreckage of their past.
Suho would sit beside her on the bench in the hospital garden, the warmth of the sun on his face, and a quiet sense of ownership in his heart. The others would be there too, their laughter and conversations a comforting backdrop, but in his mind, he was alone with her. He'd watch her, her movements now fluid, her face expressive, and remember.
He was the one who had seen the first head tilt, a small, hopeful gesture that no one else had caught. He had been the only one to witness the first, shaky line she had drawn in the sketchbook, a quiet, almost secret conversation between them. He had been the one to feel the pressure of her hand, her first, tentative grip a silent promise of her return.
And he was the one who had heard her first word. It had been his name. A simple, two-syllable word, but it had held the weight of a thousand silent prayers. He would replay it in his mind, the memory of her whispered voice a constant reminder of the profound bond they shared.
He had been the one to experience her journey of recovery in a way no one else could. He had been a ghost in his own life for years, and he had found her, a lost soul, and together, they had found their way back. He had not just been a friend; he had been a mirror. In her, he saw his own suffering, his own isolation, and in her recovery, he saw his own.
She was not just a person he had helped; she was a testament to his own resilience, a living, breathing symbol of his own triumph over his past. He would remember, always, that he was the one to experience her first steps, her first words, her first moments of genuine life. He had been her first connection back to the world, and in doing so, he had found his own way back, too.
The hospital garden, once a place of quiet desperation, had become a sanctuary. The passage of a year had softened the sharp edges of their memories, replacing them with a gentle rhythm of shared lives. Y/n was no longer a ghost but a person.
She could now walk, her stride a little unsteady at first, but with a growing confidence that matched her inner strength. She no longer had to use the wheelchair. Her physical recovery mirrored her mental one, a slow, painstaking process of rebuilding a life from the ground up.
Her days were filled with quiet purpose. She would spend her mornings in the garden, a book in her hands, her mind finally free to wander. The simple act of reading, a luxury she had lost for so long, was a quiet joy.
Her afternoons were spent with Suho, just the two of them. They didn't need words. They had a language of their own, a quiet understanding forged in the crucible of their shared trauma. They would sit on a bench, side by side, his presence a steady anchor in her life.
The group visits were a different kind of joy. When the boys came, the garden would fill with their laughter and their endless banter. Y/n was no longer a silent spectator; she was a participant. Her quick wit and dry humor were a new, delightful addition to their conversations.
She was a puzzle piece that had been lost for a long time, and now, she was finally fitting back into the picture.
As for Seongje, the name was now nothing more than a ghost, a bad memory that faded a little more each day. No one had seen him. The Union had disbanded, their power base crumbling in his absence.
He had simply disappeared, a silent vanishing act that was a final testament to his cowardice. He had broken a person and then run away from the pieces, leaving others to clean up his mess. He was gone, but the love and loyalty that had formed in the wake of his cruelty was a far more powerful legacy than he could have ever imagined.
The easy rhythm of their lives had settled into a comfortable routine. One afternoon, they decided to change their usual meeting place from the hospital garden to a park near Suho's apartment. The air was filled with the sounds of children laughing and the distant thud of a soccer ball.
Humin and Hyuntak, in a rare moment of cooperation, were trying to teach Y/n how to play street soccer. Suho and Sieun sat on a park bench, watching them. Y/n, in a pair of comfortable sweatpants, was a little clumsy at first, her movements a bit hesitant. But she was laughing, a sound that made a quiet, triumphant kind of music in Sieun's ears.
Humin, in a rare moment of gentleness, was showing her how to trap the ball with the inside of her foot. "You gotta be one with the ball," he said, his voice a little too serious.
"Oh, like a soul connection?" Hyuntak said, a teasing smirk on his face.
Y/n just shook her head, a playful smile on her lips. She tried again, and this time, the ball rolled neatly to her foot. She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, and a triumphant grin spread across her face.
Sieun watched them from the bench, a feeling of quiet contentment settling in his chest. He looked at Suho, who was watching Y/n with an intensity that made his feelings for her obvious. He saw the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, the way his shoulders relaxed every time she laughed. It was a look of pure adoration.
"She's doing great," Sieun said, a soft smile on his face.
Suho nodded, his gaze never leaving her. "She's amazing."
Their conversation was simple, but it was filled with an unspoken depth. They were both witnesses to a miracle, and they both knew it. Y/n's recovery wasn't just a physical one; it was a testament to her spirit, and to the fact that they had all, finally, found a home in each other.
Suho, who had spent the last year watching her bloom, felt a swell of emotion in his chest. He remembered that first day in the hospital garden, the sterile silence, and her vacant eyes. He had only spoken a few words to her then, a simple, "Hey, Y/n," but even in that brief moment, he had felt a strange connection. He saw not a patient, but a person, someone trapped in a silence he knew all too well.
Now, a year later, she was so different. She was vibrant, full of life, and his heart ached with a quiet kind of love. He looked at her, his gaze filled with an unspoken tenderness.
"You know," he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur, "I remember the first time I met you. Sieun wheeled you out to the garden. You were just... still. I told you it was good to meet you, but you didn't even look at me."
Y/n's gaze softened. She had no memory of that day, only the stories the boys had told her. She knew that he had been the first one to truly see her, to look past her catatonic state and see the person inside.
"I didn't know what to do," Suho continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I just... I felt like I had to do something. You were in a box, and I knew what that was like."
Y/n's hand found his, her fingers intertwining with his. She didn't say a word, but her touch was a silent language, a profound thank you for his presence, for his unwavering belief. He had seen her in her darkest moment, and he had been the one to guide her back to the light. It was a silent promise of a future together, a future built on a foundation of shared understanding and quiet love.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. Suho and Y/n were still on the park bench, the low hum of the city a distant sound. The easy silence between them, once a source of comfort, now felt charged with an unspoken energy. He had been so close to confessing before, and the words now felt heavy on his tongue, a truth he could no longer keep to himself.
He turned to face her, taking her hands in his. Her gaze was soft and open, a silent invitation to speak. He took a deep breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"Y/n," he began, his voice a little shaky, "I... I remember that first day in the garden. I told you it was good to meet you, and you didn't even look at me. And I was scared. I was scared that you were trapped in a place I knew all too well, and I didn't know how to get you out."
He squeezed her hands gently, his gaze unwavering. "And then... then you started to come back. And I felt like I was the only one who saw it at first. The head tilts, the little lines in the sketchbook. Every single small thing, every single step you took back to the world, I felt it. And I knew... I knew I was falling in love with you."
The words hung in the air, a beautiful, vulnerable truth. He saw the surprise in her eyes, followed by a soft, profound understanding.
"I know you had a really shitty relationship," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, earnest murmur. "And I'm not him. I would never hurt you. I would never lie to you. And I would never... I would never let you be alone again. I love you, Y/n. I love you so much."
Tears welled in Y/n's eyes, a release of so much pent-up emotion. She had been through a relationship where her love had been a weapon used against her, where she had been nothing more than an object to be possessed. Her life had been filled with a cold, calculated cruelty. But with Suho, it was different. He had seen her at her lowest, had loved her when she was a ghost. He had given her back her voice, her spirit, her life.
She looked at him, her heart full of a love so powerful it took her breath away. "I love you, too, Suho," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I... I think I've loved you since the moment you came back. Since you chose to stay."
He smiled, a genuine, joyful expression that made him look years younger. He leaned in and gently kissed her, a tender, heartfelt kiss that sealed their love, a quiet promise that she would never have to be a ghost again.
ok let be perfectly clear catatonia not mean “just not able move” or “move hard.” there so much more to catatonia than that. there defined signs n pattern n symptom. it serious condition. it can be life threatening. it can be mild yes but if you not be diagnosed or genuine reasonable suspicion because have list of symptoms, your temporary hard time move or speak after any emotional thing or average freeze response not catatonia please stop casually call it catatonia catatonic. please not turn it into “am so OCD” thing. hope we can all agree what happen to OCD awful n so let not repeat that okay? or similar to “reading a lot as child is sign of trauma” cast wide unnuance net pathologize everything, okay?
1996 was critical mass, folks. After how things had been building up, there was absolutely no way the euphoria would last forever.
1997 was such a huge crash for everyone in Britpop and indie music, I cannot fucking tell you. 1997 WAS the Death Of The Party, Damon was absolutely spot on about that. It couldn't have sustained itself. Graham Coxon spiraling, Justine Frischmann splitting from Damon and almost retiring from music not long after. New Labour and the criticised crossover with—not Britpop anymore, it wasn't their thing anymore, but this new, co-opted Cool Britannia, when Noel Gallagher crossed the threshold into 10 Downing Street.
From there on, it would be all Morrissey wrapped in Union jacks (and rightly criticised; the last time anyone had sense) and Spice Girls dominating the charts and the easy bisexuality of the early and mid 90s has firmly ceded all ground to the violently homophobic narrative that takes over pop culture in its entirety.
Everyone's breakdown albums are being written. Nobody likes themselves anymore. Jarvis writes the furious Cocaine Socialism (and he's 100% right about it, but feels too overwhelmed by the media attention to go ahead with publishing it, so instead we'll get Glory Days when the album drops next year. It'll open with The Fear. 👍)
Music magazines realise Britpop is done. Finished. Over. They start to look to the other three of the four nations. They try and cook up stories of scenes in Wales and Scotland. Remember ‘Newport is the new Seattle’? It's back again, only this time they're in Cardiff and Glasgow. They try and find the link between the Glasgow art scene and DIY kids: Melody Maker reckons Mogwai, Idlewild, Belle and Sebastian, The Twilight Sad are all one scene.
Melody Maker will print it's last issue in 2000.
Meanwhile, from that scene will emerge The Karelia's Alex Kapranos, but we wouldn't hear from him outside of Glasgow until 2002, when his band Franz Ferdinand start to hit the bigtime.
Meanwhile Wales throws up the coolest new bands, many of whom sing in Welsh too. Stereophonics, Manic Street Preachers, Catatonia and Super Furry Animals (who Damon Albarn is a fan of) are its biggest stars, but bands like Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, 60 Ft. Dolls, The Pooh Sticks and John Peel's favourite band, Datblygu (pronounced /dat-BLUH-gee/) (“the Welsh Fall” they called them) are lesser known but excellent. Catatonia performing International Velvet: Cerys Mathews singing the lyrics “Everyday when I wake up, I thank the lord I'm Welsh” at the 1999 Rugby World Cup opening ceremony in Cardiff is probably the highlight of their career and makes Cerys a national hero.
Super Furry Animals spent Creation's entire promotional budget on buying a decommissioned military tank, converting it into a sound system and drove to Glastonbury blasting rave music through their speakers. (1996 was a fallow year for Glastonbury, they only went to the festival site on Worthy Farm. There was no festival that year.) I think culture peaked at precisely that moment. In 1997, they did in fact come back to actually play Glasto, and they brought along Howard Marks, Welshman, unofficial SFA mascot and man with 50 identities captured by the CIA for massive drug busts going back decades. Known as Mr. Nice. His disguised passport photos are the faces on the cover of the debut Super Furry Animals album Fuzzy Logic. Culture. Peaked. Could only go downhill from there I suppose.
The only good bands to come out of England at this time are Skunk Anansie (and even for them, Weak was already a hit in like 1995) and The Prodigy.
By 2000, Blur were nearly done, Pulp would split up 2 years later after one final album, Oasis became dinosaurs out of time, their behaviour wasn't charming anymore and the world was changing, Creation Records went bankrupt and the digital age of MP3s was beginning. It was all about to change man.
1996 was genuinely the last year of the old ways.
(Technically Glasgow also had Garbage and Placebo. Though both those bands have precisely one (1) Scottish member and were sometimes just seen as American. I Guess There Was Radiohead. They would've bitten your arm if you'd called them part of any scene though.
By 2004, there were some reviews I remember reading from fans who went to Glastonbury that year. I think it is pretty indicative of where British music was at: two of the headliners that year were Oasis and Paul McCartney iirc. But you know which headliner fans came away most excited from? You know the reviews came back raving about how the old guard was out and the new generation of rock legends were here?
From festivalgoers that wrote in to the BBC the next day: “Muse provided Oasis and Macca a real masterclass in headlining. How does a band of three make so much noise? It says a lot that the sun came out when Muse came on, yet the rain came down for McCartney.” “Muse were the best live act I've ever seen and anyone who was there will agree.”
Highly recommend going watching it. Easily one of the finest rock headlines I've ever seen at the festival (it's obvious a different kind of show to like. Kendrick's headline with the thorn crown and choreographers in 2022. Not really comparable categories. But it's one of the finest common most impassioned and fiery rock festival headline set I've seen.)
i also updated my lanyard ! my sunflower lanyard is a knockoff technically lolz, but that actually works better for me bc if i bought one with official stuff on it when i got my lanyard , my symptoms were different then and it would not be as helpful. so i just edit the inserts as i need. also if you can believe it, chrome is not my preferred name , it is just what i go by online lolz. the numbers listed are my parents’ cell phones, because they have the best knowledge of what my catatonia looks like besides me. i don’t often go places by myself anymore (or places that no one else is at anyway) so the chance that i would be catatonic in public in danger without anyone to help me is pretty low, but it could happen.
feel like it’s worth saying that we don’t know if my catatonia is because of my autism or schizophrenia spectrum. i don’t know how i would tell the difference either.
