The counselor's office was warmer than Zariah expected. A little too quiet, a little too still. She sat on the soft couch, picking at the fraying edge of her sleeve, her leg bouncing without rhythm.
Her throat was dry. Her heart thudded like it didn't know how to calm down.
"I'm proud of you for coming back," Ms. Reyes said, sitting across from her. "That takes strength."
Zariah almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it didn't feel like strength. It felt like surviving by accident.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"That's okay. We don't have to start with words. We can start with silence."
They did.
For almost five minutes, neither of them spoke. Ms. Reyes didn't pressure her. She didn't stare. She just… waited.
And somehow, that was worse.
Zariah blinked fast. Her eyes burned.
"They're gonna think I'm crazy," she mumbled suddenly. "If people find out. If my mom finds out."
Ms. Reyes shook her head. "You're not crazy. You're hurting. And you're human. That's not something to be ashamed of—it's something to take care of."
Zariah stayed quiet. Her mind still fought every word of comfort.
But when Ms. Reyes offered her a notebook, a pen, and said, "Maybe you can write instead of speak, if that feels easier," she didn't refuse.
She stared at the blank page. Then slowly, shakily, wrote:
I don't know how to be okay. But I want to try.
That night, Zariah didn't cut.
She wanted to. She held the blade. She cried for an hour. But she put it back.
And texted Jasmine instead:
"I went back today. You were right. It still hurts. But I'm trying."
Jasmine replied instantly:
"I'm proud of you. You're not alone anymore."
Zariah clutched her phone like it was a lifeline.
For the first time in months, she didn't fall asleep afraid of waking up.