The Reader and the Ink I COMPLETE I ??

The Unwritten of a Thousand Words

Ninety days in a facility built for people like him.

He didn't cry.
Didn't resist.
Didn't ask for a lawyer.

He just stared at the paper for a long moment. His name was printed at the top, right next to the words involuntary admission.

Still, he didn't care.

He was escorted to the car by a kind-eyed nurse. She smiled like it would make a difference. It didn't.

The ride to the facility was silent, save for the occasional bump in the road or the clicking of the turn signal. He watched the world pass by outside the window, not because he was interested—but because it was something to do.

He was given a room. Small. Simple. White walls, white sheets, a small desk, and a nightstand. There were rules. No electronics. No pens without supervision. No belts, no shoelaces, no sharp objects of any kind. The windows didn't open.

He nodded when they explained it. Not because he agreed—just because he didn't care enough to disagree.

The other patients came and went. They watched him with wary curiosity. He didn't engage.

He spent most of his days sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. Sometimes he imagined it was a page, and that maybe if he looked hard enough, the words would write themselves.

They never did.

Therapists tried to speak with him. Asked about his childhood. His work. His thoughts. His feelings. He responded in the same way every time:
"I'm fine."
"I'm just tired."
"I don't really have anything to say."

He wasn't lying.

He didn't feel pain. Or rage. Or sorrow.

He just felt... nothing.

Every once in a while, he'd hear laughter down the hall. A nurse joking with a patient. A board game being played in the recreation room. Music from a group therapy session.

It all felt foreign. Like watching a film in a language he didn't understand. There was movement, expression, emotion—but no translation.

No connection.

Days bled into nights. Nights into mornings.

And still, he didn't care.

Not about the treatment.
Not about the visitors.
Not even about the pages he used to fill with magic and heartbreak and beauty.

He hadn't written a word since before the paramedics found him.

And he didn't miss it.

He didn't miss anything.

All he knew was that ninety days sounded like a long time.
And yet not long enough.
And yet maybe too long.
And yet... meaningless.

Time, like everything else, had lost its grip on him.

He existed.
That was all.

~~~

Day 25.

A new girl was brought in for group therapy.
Another seat filled. Another body in the circle. Another face among many.

He noticed her not because he cared, but because she broke the monotony of the room. The same stale walls, the same bruised furniture, the same laminated affirmation posters curling at the corners from age and indifference.

She was a reader.
He saw it from her nametag—large block letters underlined with blue marker, written by some cheery staff member trying to make broken people feel "seen."