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You leave the therapy group quickly, adjusting your jacket because it’s much colder than you expected when you left home.
Tonight's been... hard. Hardest than most nights, actually.
You don’t say much. You let the others take up your space. You don’t have the energy to talk about it. The weight of your mother’s absence feels unbearable today.
Maybe it's because you've spent the morning packing up her last belongings, or maybe it's because even though four months have already passed, you still feel like she’ll walk back in at any moment, just like the pain of losing her does when you least expect it.
The truth is, whatever the reason is, you sit through the session feeling numb, trying to hold back tears, feeling so much anxiety, and overthinking while you fidget with your hands and focus on other people’s pain instead of your own.
You hear footsteps behind you. First, they're hurried, but then they slow down. You see Leon, one of the guys who's in group sessions with you, standing beside you.
“Hi.”
A simple greeting is enough to pull a shy smile from you, one that hasn’t appeared since last week, exactly when he said goodbye after the session.
The blue-eyed man watches you, his hands tucked into his pockets.
To be honest, you’ve grown used to his presence in the group. To the way he speaks, like you, only when it truly feels like it, barely sharing fragments of his private life, and only when he decides it’s worth sharing.
And like you, Leon's stayed quieter than usual tonight.
“You didn’t say much today,” he comments.
You let out a sarcastic laugh, glancing sideways at him.
“Neither did you.”
“Right. But I think you needed to talk a lot more than I did.”
You lower your gaze, gripping your car keys tightly. You don’t know why, but the words you don’t dare to say form a knot in your throat.
You don’t know how, but you’re fully aware that this man has an almost admirable ability to see beyond people’s surfaces.
“It’s just… I don’t know,” you admit. “There are days when I feel like I’m finally moving forward, but others…”
You shake your head, staring down at your shoes.
“Today is one of those days.”
“I can tell.”
You sigh, cursing yourself for opening up so much to a stranger.
Meanwhile, Leon keeps looking at you not with pity, but as if weighing different ways to help you through what he senses is one of the worst days since your mother passed.
He understands more than he lets on. Even though he can’t clearly remember the woman who brought him into the world, what happened in Raccoon City and everything that came after left him more shaken than he ever admits to himself.
It’s obvious, too, how badly he’s been feeling at work lately: the constant pressure, the orders he receives that he doesn’t always agree with… and it only gets worse when he and his ex-wife decide to divorce.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“Sorry, what?” you ask, frowning in confusion.
“Let’s get some coffee,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I think you need it today… and I do too.”
You hesitate. It’s not that you don’t want to go, it’s just...
“I don’t think I’m very good company tonight,” you admit.
Leon’s lips curl into a teasing smile, a little more animated than before.
“Who says I need you to be good company?”
His answer catches you off guard.
“It’s just that, well…” he continues, now more serious. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home right now and be alone with that noise in your head—whatever’s going on in there.”
You feel pressure tightening in your chest because he’s right.
You don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.
“Okay…” you finally say after a few seconds. “I guess coffee doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Great.”
You walk side by side for several minutes in complete silence until you reach a small café on one of the quieter streets in Washington.
It’s almost empty, except for the barista behind the counter and an older man reading the newspaper by the window.
Leon opens the door for you, letting you step in first. Your shyness makes you hesitate for a second before you nod in thanks and go inside. The place feels perfect, and you wonder why you’ve never known about it.
Your mind drifts to the thought that maybe Leon chooses this place because he doesn’t want attention; then again, seeing the shelves full of books, the area set up for working with ceramics and clay, and the calm atmosphere the café radiates, you think maybe he brings you here for you.
“What would you like?” he asks as he steps up to the counter.
You glance at the menu on the chalkboard and answer without even really reading the options.
“A cappuccino, please.”
Leon nods and orders the same from the barista while pulling out his wallet, ready to pay.
“Hey, you don’t have to—”
You begin, but he turns to look at you after handing the man a twenty-dollar bill.
“Seriously, let me. This one's on me. It’s just coffee.”
You bite your lip nervously, trying to think of ways to pay him back, but you let it go.
Once you have your drinks, you find a table by a large window.
You stare, mesmerized by the Christmas lights outside, realizing it’s the first time you’ve truly noticed them since they were put up. Meanwhile, you instinctively wrap your hands around the cup, feeling the warmth seep into your fingers, and only then do you realize how cold you’ve actually been.
Leon sits down in the chair across from you, watching you carefully but without pressuring you to say anything, as if he’s giving you time to find the right words so you can maybe open up to him.
“Well then…” he finally says, losing patience with the silence you’ve both fallen into, and because he’s genuinely worried about you. “Are you going to tell me what’s been going through your head, or do you want me to guess?”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”
“Do what?”
“Play therapist. That’s what I have my psychologist for... and the support group she recommended, by the way.”
His expression changes.
He looks… disappointed.
“I’m not playing anything. It’s just that… I don’t know. I saw you today. You looked bad. Worse than usual.”
You lower your gaze to your coffee, running your thumb along the rim of the cup while you search for the courage you don’t quite have, to say out loud what you’ve wished so many times you could tell someone other than your therapist.
“Today I packed up the last of my mom’s things.” Once you say it out loud, the words feel heavy. “I didn’t expect to find anything and… I found a letter she wrote to me before she got really bad. She told me not to let myself drown in pain, and that instead of crying I should sit down and write all those stories I have, had, in my head.”
Leon’s expression softens. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, trying to steady his nerves and the feelings stirred by what you’ve confessed.
“Is that why you haven’t been writing?”
“How…?” you ask, surprised.
“You mentioned it once in group. That you used to be a writer, and you had several publishing contracts for new adult novels that you had to turn down when your mom got sick. So… I assumed.”
Not just that he has such a good memory, but that he remembers something you say during your very first session three months ago completely catches you off guard.
“Yeah, well… it’s just that I don’t feel the same anymore,” you sigh, trying to stay calm. “Who am I to tell stories about my characters’ lives if I don’t even understand my very own one?”
Leon falls silent for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully.
“You know… keeping things in perspective, because it’s not the same, I feel something similar after what happens in Raccoon City.”
“Really?”
He nods, gripping his cup like a shield.
“Everything happened fast. Too fast. I think my life was going to change in a normal, boring way, and it did, but just the exact opposite,” he pauses, taking a breath. “The government…” he trails off, shaking his head. “The point is, ever since then, I always feel like I’m one step behind everyone else. Work consumes me. I don’t even know how my relationship with my ex-wife lasts as long as it does. I don’t know how to make my kids proud of me…” He gives you a bitter smile and looks at you. “I guess that’s why I feel pretty lost. I don’t know what to do now that the little stability I had has fallen apart.”
You watch him, seeing the honesty in his eyes, his words, his gestures.
You’ve always known Leon Kennedy as strong and kind, or at least that’s how he presents himself in group, but you don’t realize he’s this… broken inside, and still so inclined to think about others before himself.
Sitting across from him now, you realize that even for people like him, who seem to have everything under control, life isn’t a bed of roses.
“So how do you get through it?” you ask, feeling a little more relaxed now, a little more comfortable.
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” he admits. “That’s why I’m in the support group. Do you think I’d go otherwise?”
You both smile at each other.
“So I guess we’re both a little lost,” you say, meeting his eyes directly for the first time all afternoon.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean being lost is a bad thing.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.” He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “It means we still have the chance to start over. And to meet people along the way.”
You let the thought settle in your mind, turning it over. You can’t help but agree with him: maybe being lost isn’t the end, but the beginning of something better.
For the first time that afternoon, you actually feel… okay.
You talk for hours. About grief and loss. About that strange in-between space where you’re no longer who you used to be, but you haven’t yet discovered who you’re becoming.
You open up in ways that surprise you. You tell Leon not only about your mother and how much what happed in Raccoon City impacted you. How you watched the news, unable to look away. You also tell him about your fears, the little things that can turn an easy day into hell; the guilt you carry for not doing more before Alzheimer’s, the disease that seems to devastate families more than patients, takes everything away.
Leon opens up too. He tells you how uncomfortable he feels when people either look down on him or treat him like some kind of god in the support group. He talks about how tired he is of being “the survivor,” of carrying expectations he never chooses, and how deep down he just wants to be normal and enjoy his kids.
By the time you both realize how late it’s gotten, the café is completely empty again except for the barista, who is wiping down the counters and politely signaling with his eyes that it’s time for you to leave.
You both laugh nervously. Leon checks his watch, then looks at you.
“We should probably go…”
You nod, but the truth is you don’t want to leave.
This sort of date. or… whatever it really is, marks the first time in a long while that you don’t feel alone. And honestly, you’re afraid of going back to the loneliness your mother’s death pulls you into.
You step outside, the cold even sharper than earlier in the afternoon. It seeps into you. You slip your hands into the pockets of your coat, hesitating for a moment about whether you should turn around and say something to Leon.
Once again that day, you dare to do it.
“That was nice,” you confess softly, loud enough for him to hear. “I mean… I didn’t expect it, but I’m really glad we did this.”
“Me too,” he replies, giving you a smile that feels different from the earlier ones. “Maybe we should do this more often.”
“You mean…?”
“Go out together outside the group,” he clarifies. “We don’t have to talk about sad things every time we see each other. We can just… talk. If you’d like, of course.”
“I’d love that,” you say, feeling warmth spread through your chest, something you haven’t felt in a long time: hope.
“Great.”
You head back toward your cars. Leon stays by your side the whole time, hands in his pockets, gaze lifted as if he’s watching the first stars appear in the darkening sky.
When your cars are only a few steps away, you both stop, and neither of you even makes the effort to say goodbye.
You shiver slightly, unsure whether it’s from the cold or from the way the day has ended. You go to group therapy feeling awful, barely able to speak; now you’re standing beside a government agent after the two of you confide things you’re sure you’ve both kept buried far longer than you’d ever admit.
Leon turns toward you, noticing the tremble in your shoulders before you can hide it. Without saying a word, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders with an ease that suggests he’s more than used to the gesture.
“Leon, you don’t have to—”
“Take it. It’s fine,” he says quietly. “You’re freezing.”
You want to argue, but the immediate warmth of the fabric and the scent of his cologne comfort you in a way you don’t expect.
“Thank you…” you murmur, adjusting the sleeves.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The street is quiet, except for the occasional passing car.
You know something changes between you tonight. You don’t know how to define it, but you stop trying.
Maybe it doesn’t need a name. Maybe you just need to let yourself go with it for once.
“I think I said this before, but I want to remind you: you don’t have to have everything figured out,” Leon breaks the silence, looking at you. “The grief, the writing… You don’t have to worry about anything right now except yourself and making sure you’re okay.”
“You say that like you have it all figured out,” you reply, raising an eyebrow with a soft, uneven laugh.
“I don’t,” he admits. “And sometimes I get overwhelmed thinking I should.” You’re not entirely sure what he’s referring to, but he keeps turning over everything that happens since the events in Raccoon City in his mind. “But… little by little, I’m starting to realize that maybe it’s okay not to have everything under control.”
You turn toward him, tilting your head slightly.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make things sound more… manageable.” You sigh, shaking your head. “I don’t know, when you talk about what happens in Raccoon City, your divorce, your kids, your job not going the way it should… it doesn’t feel as heavy. The problem is still there, but it doesn’t drain all your energy. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
Leon studies you for a moment before answering, processing your words.
“Maybe because I know what it’s like to let problems consume you,” he says finally. “And I also know that if you let them, they’ll just keep growing until they swallow you whole.”
You swallow, trying to steady the nervousness his words stir in you.
“That’s why I think, if you want, we should keep doing this,” Leon continues.
“Doing what?”
“This,” he gestures between the two of you. “Meeting outside the group. Talking. Not talking. Getting coffee. Dinner. Lunch. Whatever we feel like.”
You feel a little foolish for asking so many questions, for hesitating, for making sure this might be the beginning of a new friendship. But the truth is, it’s been so long since you’ve really had a friend, someone to lean on, that Leon’s kindness and suggestions feel unfamiliar… and at the same time, deeply comforting.
“You can call it whatever you want,” Leon adds, noticing your uncertainty. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you gently closer, only after making sure you meet his eyes and silently confirm that you’re comfortable. Of course you do. “I just want you to know I don’t mind sitting in silence with you. Okay?”
“Okay,” you say with a slow breath.
“You sure?” he checks.
You look into his eyes, a small smile forming on your lips.
“Yeah. Let’s keep doing this.”
His expression softens noticeably, and he looks more at ease, as if he’s been nervous about how you might react.
“Perfect, therapy-group best friend.”
Once again, neither of you moves or says anything else. Your head simply rests against his arm.
There’s no need to speak. There’s no reason to pull away.
For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.
And somehow, you know Leon doesn’t either.