The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. It was the middle of the night, and the psych ward—or whatever they called this place—was silent except for the occasional creak of the floorboards or the distant sound of shuffling feet from the night guards.
The others were asleep. At least, I assumed they were. Nico snored in the room next to mine; his bed was closest to the door. Kai never made a sound when he slept, not that I ever heard him. Aiden's room was across from mine, and Jonah? He had a room at the end of the hall. Isolated. Maybe he liked it that way.
Technically, this wasn't a psych ward. Not officially, anyway. The doctors didn't use that word. They called it "The Program," which sounded a lot nicer. We weren't locked in cells with padded walls, though the heavily monitored environment wasn't far off. It was more like a facility—a last stop before something worse.
For kids like us, they said it was a chance. A trial run. A place where they could assess if we could be "rehabilitated" before we turned 18 and became too much of a burden to society.
It was experimental, a new way to approach mental health. Instead of throwing us into psychiatric hospitals or detention centers, we were sent here. A controlled environment, just short of a full-blown institution. We weren't patients yet; we were subjects in their study.
I guess they wanted to see if we could be "fixed."
I wasn't sure if that was even possible for people like us.
The building itself felt like it couldn't decide what it wanted to be. The outside looked like an old, forgotten boarding school, hidden behind overgrown trees and a high iron fence. Inside, though, it was sterile. Clinical. White walls, white floors, the occasional potted plant thrown in to make it feel more "normal." There were common areas where we were supposed to "socialize" and dorm rooms where we slept, all closely monitored by staff who didn't bother pretending to care.
But the truth was, we weren't here because they cared about us. We were here because we were broken. At least, that's how they saw it. If they couldn't fix us in this final step, we'd be shipped off to real psych wards once we hit 18, our last chance at freedom gone.
I wasn't planning on staying that long.
I turned over in bed, the stiff sheets rustling underneath me. The Program wasn't a prison, but it felt like one. There was no escaping the watchful eyes of the staff. Guards patrolled the hallways at night, and the nurses—who all wore the same blank expressions—kept tabs on us during the day. Our "therapy sessions" were scheduled like clockwork, always just enough to remind us why we were here.
The worst part? It wasn't just the staff. There were cameras. Everywhere. In the halls, in the common rooms, outside in the courtyard, watching, recording everything we did. Making sure we didn't break the rules. Making sure we didn't act out.
I hated it. I hated feeling like I was under a microscope, like some kind of experiment.
We were told this place was meant to help us, that if we followed the rules and went through the process, we could go home. Get our lives back. But no one here believed that. At least, I didn't. There was no going back to who we were before.
I tossed the sheet aside and sat up, feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. My stomach growled, probably from the lack of real food. The pizza earlier had been a sad excuse for a meal, but it was better than nothing. Most of the time, they tried to feed us healthy stuff—nutrient-dense, balanced meals to "help the healing process," as if kale and quinoa could fix what was wrong with us.
Yeah, right.
I grabbed the small bag of chips I'd hidden under my mattress, careful not to make too much noise. Technically, we weren't supposed to have junk food in our rooms, but I didn't care about the rules. What were they going to do? Put me in a padded cell?
The door creaked slightly as I cracked it open, peeking into the dark hallway. I could hear the faint murmur of the guards' conversation down the hall, probably bored out of their minds, but that was a good thing. It meant they weren't paying attention.
I slipped out into the hallway, heading toward the common room. Sometimes, it helped to just get away from the silence of my room, to remind myself that this place wasn't as empty as it felt.
When I got to the common room, I wasn't surprised to find someone already there. Nico, of course. He was sitting in his usual spot on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest as he stared up at the ceiling, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. Smoking was another thing we weren't technically allowed to do, but Nico was an expert at bending the rules.
I leaned against the doorway, watching him for a second before speaking. "You know, those things'll kill you."
He didn't even glance in my direction. "Maybe that's the point."
I rolled my eyes and walked over, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch. Nico exhaled a slow stream of smoke, still not looking at me. He was like that—always acting like he couldn't see anything past his own ego.
"You can't sleep either?" he asked, finally turning his head toward me.
I shrugged, popping a chip into my mouth. "Something like that."
He didn't press. Nico wasn't the type to ask questions. He didn't need to. He could see it in the way I moved, in the way I avoided the others and kept my distance. We were all broken here, in our own way. Some of us just hid it better than others.
The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from the TV playing some late-night show casting shadows across the walls. The common room was where they encouraged us to spend time together, to "build relationships," but no one really did. At least, not the way they wanted us to.
"Do you ever wonder if they actually care what happens to us?" I asked, more to myself than to him.
Nico smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. "They don't. We're just numbers to them. Statistics. If we make it, they'll pat themselves on the back and say the Program worked. If we don't, they'll say we were too far gone to save."
I bit my lip, staring at the half-empty bag of chips in my lap. "Maybe we are."
Nico flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray on the table. "Maybe. But that's for them to decide, right? Not us."
I didn't respond. I didn't have to. Nico wasn't wrong. We were here because they thought we could still be fixed. But what if we couldn't? What if the things that broke us were too deep, too permanent to ever really heal?
And what would happen to us if we failed?
As the minutes passed, the quiet between us settled, heavy but not uncomfortable. For a moment, I forgot where we were, forgot the cameras, the guards, the doctors with their clipboards. It was just me and Nico, two broken people sharing a bag of chips in the middle of the night.
But that moment was fleeting. This place, this Program—it wasn't real. Not really.
The truth was, we were all just waiting. Waiting for the day they decided whether we were worth saving or not.