He’s sitting right across from me, his piercing eyes darting around the room and his fingers drumming on the table. We’re in art therapy, so it isn’t exactly the right time to start up a conversation about how much I like him, but it’s been months and I heard a rumor that he was getting out soon. I settle for watching him discreetly from behind my hair and pretend to focus on the disturbing image I’m creating with my pencil. I’ve been here for months now and he’s the only one who seems to understand.
       My parents had me committed when they found my diet pills and laxatives. They told me I would only be a gone a couple weeks while they figured out how to deal with me at home. That was six months ago. At first I got weekly visits and phone calls, but my friends slowly went on with their lives and my parents realized how much easier it was to lock me up here and tell everyone that I was at boarding school. I miss home, but at the same time I understand. I was the supposedly perfect prep school girl; I had perfect grades, I never missed a day of school, I had circles of friends and I was the best swimmer on the swim team.
       But then one of my so called friends told me maybe I would swim faster if I lost a few pounds. A few pounds turned into an obsession and soon enough I was the skinniest girl on the team, but it still wasn’t enough. I was cold all the time, and none of my rings fit my fingers anymore. I was mostly keeping my grades up but as soon as they slipped a little, my parents searched my room. The rest is ancient history. I’d fallen into the groove of counseling, group therapy, art therapy, swallowing as little food as possible and pretending to socialize. I find it mildly sadistic that socialization is a required part of treatment at a mental health and rehabilitation center, but we all go along with it anyways. It’s a lot of small talk and pretending we have interests other than our own self destruction, and it’s always unequivocally boring. That is, until Ryan showed up.
       None of us know what he’s here for. Ryan doesn’t talk in group but he smiles when someone makes a half-hearted hospital joke and he draws beautiful portraits of each of us. They’re all hanging in the art room, our names neatly printed on the bottom right of each page. We’re all caught in the middle of a haze of self-loathing, enclosed in the walls of a hospital, and yet he manages to create beauty. He finds the beauty in each of us, the beauty none of us can seem to find. Ryan got here a few weeks ago and he’s already managed to sketch all twenty-three other patients. The only one he hasn’t drawn is himself. I want to ask him why, but I think I already know. Each of our portraits seems to glow with the self confidence we all seem to lack, he’s managed to patch us together and make us whole again. I don’t know if he can find it within himself long enough to draw it. There are a lot of pages missing from his sketchbook and he’s worn down the eraser on every pencil in the art room.
       I’m shocked back to the real world as my sketchbook clatters to the floor. Ryan looks over at me, his eyes huge, “I’m so sorry.” He says, panicked. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I leaned over to grab another pencil and I accidentally… I’m sorry.” “It’s no big deal, honest. I was just doodling, don’t worry about it.” I throw him a half smile that he tries to return. I have a feeling both of our attempts turn out more like strange half grimaces, but in a mental hospital it’s as if we’ve both managed full-hearted grins. Art therapy wraps up, and we’re left to meaninglessly wander for an hour, as the doctors sneakily analyze our actions in an unstructured setting. “Hey you wanna play cards or something?” he asks me as we walk out the door. With me? Is he serious? “Sure, I’d love to.” I’ve been here for months and this is the first time I’ve felt anything but tepid melancholy. It isn’t earth shattering, and it’s only a glimpse, but for a second, I feel something almost like hope.