The next morning, the towel was still stained.
Zariah stared at it in silence. Her bandaged arm throbbed with every heartbeat, but the pain felt distant—like it belonged to someone else. Her room was quiet, except for the whispering thoughts in her head.
"You scared her."
"You were so close this time."
"Why are you still here?"
She didn't answer them.
She hadn't spoken to Jasmine since last night. Not even a text. Jasmine had cleaned up the mess, cried softly when Zariah wasn't looking, and stayed until nearly sunrise. She didn't tell anyone. She didn't scream. She just… stayed.
Zariah walked to school like nothing happened.
No one noticed the bandage under her hoodie. No one noticed her tired eyes, or the stiffness in the way she moved. Teachers smiled and passed her papers marked with A's. Friends waved but didn't stop. Life went on.
And Zariah felt invisible again.
During art class, she stared at a blank canvas the entire period. Her brush didn't move. Her mind did.
She kept seeing Jasmine's face—terrified, crying, whispering, "Don't do this."
I almost did, Zariah thought. I almost left her.
The guilt hit her harder than the pain ever did.
That night, Jasmine finally texted:
You good?
Zariah stared at it for a long time. Then typed:
No. But I'm still here.
Good. Just… please. Don't make me watch that again.
Zariah didn't know how to respond to that.
So instead, she opened her sketchbook again. The one someone had called "beautiful." She turned past the drawings of tears and blades and drowning hands—then paused on a fresh page.
And slowly, she began to draw something new.
It wasn't light.
It wasn't bright.
But it was trying.
A cracked heart, stitched back together with messy thread. Uneven. Crooked. Still bleeding.
But it was whole.
For now.