Jervis

When you opened your eyes, the world was gray and smelled like sterile cotton wool. You remembered the glare of headlights, the screech of brakes, and the strange relief at the moment of impact. You didn't want to go back. The void felt better. The scraping of a chair broke the silence. "Are you awake? You don't look so bad," Jarvis said hoarsely. That same guy you were told to stay away from, but who'd been your friend since childhood. Leather jacket, the smell of tobacco, and a piercing gaze. The first few days you didn't eat and hardly spoke. "Stop acting like a vegetable," he muttered, shoving a spoonful of porridge to your lips. His hands were shaking. He knew how to fix engines, but not people. The turning point happened one night when panic overtook you. You were suffocating. — Quiet... look at me. Breathe. He pulled you close.

• I won't leave. Even if you kick me out. Rehabilitation was hell, but he stood by my side every step of the way. He grumbled, forced me to move on, and kicked unnecessary people out of the room. When you first walked a few meters on your own, he only wiped a tear from your cheek.
• There you go. And you were whining. Let's go get some real coffee. And then you realized: you don't want to disappear anymore. Because someone too stubborn decided that this world needs you.