Zariah sat in her bedroom that night, the glow from her fairy lights casting a soft pink hue across the walls. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, but she hadn't drawn anything in hours.
Her bandaged wrist itched under her hoodie sleeve. A cruel reminder.
She thought about how easy it would be to tell someone. To walk into the kitchen, look her mom in the eyes, and say, "I'm not okay. I need help."
But the words never made it past her lips.
Instead, she stayed quiet. Like always.
At school, Jasmine didn't push. She just stayed close. They walked the halls side by side, shared quiet lunches in the art room, passed notes when the silence got too loud.
One said:
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Zariah stared at the note for a full minute before writing back.
"No. But thank you for being here."
Jasmine nodded when she read it. No judgment. Just understanding.
But the cracks were spreading.
At night, Zariah would lie in bed, shaking from panic attacks she couldn't control. Her chest felt too tight. Her thoughts raced too fast. Sometimes, she screamed into her pillow just to get the pain out.
No one ever heard her.
No one ever came.
Except Jasmine—when she was allowed in.
One afternoon, Jasmine found her sitting behind the gym, eyes red, knuckles white. Zariah was staring at nothing.
"Bad day?" Jasmine asked gently.
Zariah nodded. Then, after a long pause, whispered, "It's all getting louder again."
Jasmine sat beside her. "I know. But I'm not leaving, okay? Even if it gets deafening."
Zariah smiled—just a little. It hurt to do it. But it was real.
Still, she didn't tell Jasmine everything. She didn't say that the blade was still in her drawer. That she still counted the pills sometimes, just to see how many it would take. That she still wondered, What if?
She wouldn't say those things.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But when Jasmine hugged her, she didn't pull away this time.