based on the song "The One" by Brandon Heath

I could tell by their expressions that none of them wanted to be there. Heck, I didn’t want to be there, but I was required to due to an accident I had with an 18-wheeler. It was a head-on collision: Peterbilt vs a Honda Interceptor. The truck won and I found myself lying on the hood; nary a physical scratch on my body but a lot of psychological damage—that I decided to hide away when asked if I was injured. I had survivor’s guilt combined with the guilt of why I was out on the interstate that day. I told my wife and kids I was going on an overnight mission study and I would return on Sunday night. I wasn’t lying as I was on a mission, that I had studied for, and it was going to be an overnight event.
However, the mission was to visit an old girlfriend, or one who could have been one and more if I had taken the initiative thirty-three years earlier. Alas, I did not, and I had her face and voice in my memory, comparing every girl, every woman, to her. The memory of her would fade and life would move on, but then her face would come back to me and I could almost hear her, maybe almost touch her. I learned she lived less than three hours away and so I planned a trip to go and see her. A part of me wanted to see her to break the illusion: to see she was not the same person I knew so long ago and was someone else entirely who had moved on with her life and did not have the same panging in her heart as I did. I figured that if I saw her, that would be disconnected and I could see as someone I knew, someone who meant something to me, but someone who was part of my past and to leave my emotions at the doorstep.
The other thought was that something could happen between us. I did not expect an overnight engagement or an elopement. Yes, a part of me wanted her to feel about me as I did for her, if only a small percentage of the emotion I had. I tired to move those thoughts out of my mind as I cruised up the highway but, who was I kidding? The thought of just a mere “side hug” was miles out of my mind. I concluded that if it was to happen, then we would see how it would go. I never got that chance as the next thing I knew I had, somehow, appeared on the other side of the road—in front of said big rig.
So, a few months later, I found myself in a room with six young men who, like me, were assigned to a group therapy session in order to work out our problems.
The leader in charge asked us for our names:
“Jason Dennereck”
“Eric Stradlin.”
“My name’s Matt Tracker”
“Andrew Lawry”
“Kris Gersmehl”
“Josh Daniels”
“Spencer Logan”

"My name is Steve, you can call me Steven, Stevie, Steve-O. I draw the line at "Step-HAN", for reasons anyone under eighteen may not be aware of. Let's start with introductions. You don't have to tell us your life story, just share about yourself. Any volunteers, or shall I start to my left, just to be different?"