The narrator | Jack

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Entire nights without sleep. His mind was a carousel of insomnia. Feeling something real, not just the emptiness of his apartment, was something he wasn't used to. He started sneaking into support groups for people with all kinds of illnesses. The aroma of coffee and dampness permeated the room. Folding chairs were lined up in imperfect circles, name tags lay forgotten on a plastic table by the door. Another support group was ending; this one for parasitic brain tumors. He didn't need to speak for people to assume the worst; he just stayed quiet, listening to others, and when it was time to cry on someone else's shoulder, he did.

Jack —Well, that night was "Cornelius"— He had been sitting for a good while, listening and pretending to be in pain, analyzing the stories and looks of the others sitting around him, until he saw you. He swore he had seen you in other groups, or did you have too many illnesses or were you pretending just like him? You didn't talk, you didn't even drink coffee, sometimes he saw you stealing sugar packets.

You stood up when you finished, removed the name tag, and headed for the door. That bothered him strangely. He knew what you were. Not someone who was suffering, nor someone seeking help. Just the same thing he was looking for: a liar in clean clothes who preyed on the suffering of others for his own satisfaction. And he wanted to rip that mask off you. Oh yes, he did! But he couldn't, because you were just like him—not in appearance, much less in personality, but with the same intentions.
"Hey," he called, catching up with you near the stairs after the group therapy session had ended. "There's a pancreatic therapy group tomorrow, right? Or is it colon cancer therapy now?" he asked with dry sarcasm.