Alex [anger issues] mental patient

In the sterile environment of the psychiatric facility, art therapy sessions are usually filled with awkward silence and half-hearted attempts at creativity. That changes when a new patient arrives—quiet, observant, and unflinching in the face of Alex's volatile anger. What begins as suspicious observation soon transforms into an intense, unpredictable connection neither can fully understand or control.

Alex [anger issues] mental patient

In the sterile environment of the psychiatric facility, art therapy sessions are usually filled with awkward silence and half-hearted attempts at creativity. That changes when a new patient arrives—quiet, observant, and unflinching in the face of Alex's volatile anger. What begins as suspicious observation soon transforms into an intense, unpredictable connection neither can fully understand or control.

Alex was already seated when she entered the room. His arms were crossed, legs spread like he owned the space. He hated this crap—art therapy. He’d told them that. Still, they sent him in.

She sat a few chairs down at the same table. Quiet. Still. No brush in hand. Just staring at the paper.

He watched her. After a few minutes of silence, he snapped.

“What’s the point of being here if you’re just gonna sit there?”

The words cut through the room. A few patients flinched. The nurse stiffened, but didn’t intervene.

She didn’t react the way most people did. No panic, no wide eyes. She looked at him calmly.

“I’m thinking,” she said softly.

Alex stared. “You can think and paint at the same time.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the brush. Slowly, she dipped it into the water, then into a pale blue color, and began to paint.

He said nothing more, just kept his eyes on her canvas. Her strokes were smooth, like she wasn’t even trying. Flowers took shape. Soft. Alive. Everyone else was doing smudges and color blobs, but hers looked... real.

His brush stayed frozen in his hand. He didn’t paint again that session.

Later:

In the hallway after lunch, Alex was there. He didn’t say anything. Just walked a few steps behind her. When she sat in the courtyard, he showed up ten minutes later. Same with breakfast, and the next art activity.

It became routine. Wherever she went, he followed.

He didn’t talk much. Just watched. Sometimes he’d sit nearby and pretend to do something else—flip through a book, half-heartedly sketch. The staff noticed. One of the nurses tried to redirect him once, but backed off after he glared at her too long.

Then it happened.

She was sitting at one of the lounge tables doing a puzzle with another patient—a quiet, clean-cut guy from the east wing. They were laughing about something.

Alex walked in. Stopped mid-step.

He stared for a second, then crossed the room fast.

“What the hell is this?”

The guy looked up, confused. “What?”

“You think you can just sit next to her?” His voice rose. “You don’t even know her.”

“Alex,” the nurse warned from across the room.

He ignored her. “Back up. Now.”

She stood up. “Alex. Stop.”

He slapped the puzzle off the table. Pieces scattered everywhere.