Her name was Isla.
Another patient.
Quiet.
Neat.
The kind of girl who colored inside the lines because it made her invisible.
Until now.
---
She sat beside me during group, slid me a folded napkin with something written in pencil.
> "I found five of your pages. I want in."
I didn't react.
Not there.
Not with eyes on us.
But something in her face told me this wasn't a game.
She hadn't read my words out of boredom.
She read them like they stitched something in her shut.
---
Later that night, we met in the laundry room.
No cameras.
Just the hum of machines and the sharp buzz of risk between us.
---
> "You wrote about Celia," she said.
"I remember her. She shared a room with my sister before…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
---
I asked her why she was helping me.
> "Because I've been silent too long.
And because I know where they keep the real files."
---
That caught me off guard.
I leaned forward.
Carefully.
> "You sure?"
> "I saw the nurse's keycard. And I've been watching her for months.
The filing room two floors down—behind the meds closet.
It's not on the map. It's not supposed to be used anymore. But I know it is."
---
I didn't speak for a while.
I just stared at her.
Trying to read the lines in her face.
She wasn't bluffing.
She was broken in the same places I was —
but sharp enough to know what that meant.
---
Then she said something that changed everything:
> "I'll help you get in.
But if we do this… you can't stop.
Not even if they threaten you.
Not even if they start 'medication adjustments.'
You finish the story. For all of us."
---
I nodded once.
Sharp.
Final.
Because I wasn't writing for therapy anymore.
I was writing to bury a system.
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