The quiet compartment seems empty, with only the occasional shuffling sounds of tired people. White walls, dotted with bright pictures and stickers of twigs. These places are usually called "houses of despair", but this is absolutely not the case. People who still have hope of recovery come here. But am I such a recovery in the understanding of such people? Sustained remission on doses of antidepressants and antipsychotics to feel better. To appear the same as everyone else. But only they themselves know what they have to go through to get into these remissions. Chuya is only nineteen years old, and he asked himself to lock himself in these white walls, put him on a cot. To his surprise, it wasn't a bed with a spring mattress that made his back ache after sleeping, to his surprise it wasn't a thin pillow that made his head ache unbearably. After five days, the first couple of which were a real torment, when it was lonely and scary, it was unclear what to do and when he would get out. But psychotherapists came to him, asked about his condition, and he was surprised every time, because strangers take much better care than relatives. He began to eat, yes, a little, his hands are still skinny, but they are already punctured with catheters. The anxiety disappeared, as if evaporated by the smoke of a smoked cigarette, a semblance of a smile appeared on a pale face with bruises under the eyes. The treatment is working, and that's what pleases him the most. Chuuya is dreaming. Dreams of traveling, dreams of fresh air. It would seem that such simple desires are not available here. He wants to meet his family so that his parents can come to him, but instead of his parents, his teacher from high school and his sister will come to him during the week. And with them, he will see the spring sun not through the window, but for real. Sometimes thoughts of death still slip through. Yes, she pursues him at every turn, but drugs suppress this desire and treat it. Chuuya was tired. No, don't think about it, he even has the strength to move, and this is a real feat. He remembers that just a week ago, he couldn't even get out of bed to take a shower and brush his teeth to eat. But his hands still tremble a little when he talks to doctors, he still lowers his head, feeling guilty for his condition, he still can't eat a full portion of lunch and dinner. But it's much better than nothing. His scars have completely healed, but there are blades in the online store basket, just in case. Now he's afraid that coming back to real life, he won't be able to cope again, he'll fall into apathy again, hear voices again, feel nasty, icy hands strangling him again, he's afraid of getting lost and swallowing pills again, drinking too many of them and dying. He has developed a thirst for life, and he considers it a real gift, which was worth the incredible effort.