-Prologue: Welcome to Boston-

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-Zeke-

"Honestly, Doc, I don't see the point of coming here," I grumble, sinking into the worn-out cushions of the old red couch. The room is the epitome of blandness—white walls devoid of any personal touches, a single desk that has seen better days where my therapist sits.

Dr. Bennett lets out a sigh, the weariness evident in his voice. "That's the thing, Mr. Slater. You seem to be stuck in the past. I'm trying to help you move on."

A surge of frustration wells up within me, and I can't help but sit up, my eyes fixed on the doctor. "There's one flaw in your plan, though," I retort, my voice sharp with annoyance. "I can't just move on within a few months."

Understanding flickers in Dr. Bennett's eyes as he tries to explain, "I understand that. That's why we prescribe medication to assist you."

The notion of being expected to brush off my trauma within a matter of months infuriates me. It's as if people think I have a switch to flip and suddenly everything will be okay. But they don't understand. They couldn't possibly comprehend the pain of witnessing someone I held so dear shoot themselves right in front of me. If they had gone through something similar, they wouldn't be so quick to dismiss my struggle.

The therapist glances at the clock, then back at me. "Well, Ezekiel, our session is over for today. I'll see you next week."

"Don't call me that, please and thank you," I snap, my irritation boiling over. I open the door, eager to escape this sterile room, and begin to navigate the maze of halls that make up the hospital.

Therapy, I think bitterly to myself, is far from fun.

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