𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓⁰²ʰᵉᵐᵐⁱⁿᵍˢ

ㅤㅤㅤ x ──hibiscus blush

luke

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The likes of Asari bumping into Ashton and I before, then her being brought to one of the meetings that day seemed so predestined, as though the universe had been looking out for us, pushing our pieces into a whole puzzle - or rather, Michael pushing her into the puzzle.

I couldn't tell if I wanted to curse at Mike or thank him endlessly for bringing her. Anyone but her, I wanted to think - but please only her, another thought invaded.

It felt almost so lackluster to suddenly meet her in the hallway, all of colliding shoulders and goosebump arms making themselves known. I myself had goosebumps but not due to the overly cold air conditioning, but rather seeing her face as though I'd seen a ghost.

She stood before me and I thought I'd finally lost my mind. The bus station girl was right there wide-eyed and gaping in utter shock. Plus the fact that she donned all in white, I was one step away to convincing myself I'd died and she'd been there to greet me.

Anyway, I thought the interaction to be a slight bit lackluster due to the sole reason that I knew her more than she knew me, so I had more the confidence to strike up jokes and extend a friendly gesture more than she. All she knew was that I was some guy she bumped into in the hallway, since I recall she'd been in too much of a hurry back in the bus station to even look Ashton or I in the eyes.

Asari.

I thought the name suited her.

It sounded curious, adventurous, perhaps daring to the point of danger - but these were just my presumptive ways shining through.

I happened to read through the notebook pages she dropped, thinking that I wouldn't get another chance of stumbling upon her again, and found myself entertained by the inner workings of her mind.

She liked to trail off about what she noticed that day, whether it was a smoker's yellowed teeth or the dirty undersides of some janitor's nails then what she thought about the unkempt habits of people. I found her to be quite observant.

From one journal page she wrote on, she seemed to have been detailing out on a list all the things she needed as though she was planning on going for a vacation. She wrote down an address beneath the name Darlene Hood, even underlining it harshly with her blue ink.

Her handwriting seemed just as flustered as she had been on the day she bumped into Ashton.

The girl remained a fixture in my mind as I cleared the meeting room of its cushions and chairs, tucking them away in a cupboard so the next therapist would find them neatly stored the next day for their meeting.

It was a task I did almost mechanically, something my mind could shut down to as I did my work, let the afterthoughts of members, family, business fill my head instead of counting just how many threads there were unraveling from each of the cushions. I'd count and bore myself to death.

At 24, I found myself as a group therapist to ex addicts of all sorts. Drugs, liquor, smoking, sex - you name it. Hence why my groups tend to be the largest out of all the rest.

There's usually a separation between the addictions in normal group therapy. How there's one group for ex drug addicts, then another of its own group for ex alcoholics, so on and so forth - but my dad decided that an addiction was an addiction, that it mattered less if it was to smoking or sex, or some like it.

So he made it all for one group, pushing the responsibility unto me since I'd already been studying psychology. Albeit it was just under my free time, I had no plans of being a therapist in the future, and yet I still found myself taking on the job and filling my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays with the meetings.