Zariah hadn't cut in three days.
It felt strange to say that—even in her own head. Like if she acknowledged it too loudly, the progress would disappear. Like it was something delicate, fragile, easily stolen by a bad thought or a rough night.
But three days was three days.
And it mattered.
Jasmine noticed. Of course she did. She never said it outright, but her eyes softened every time she looked at Zariah now. There was a quiet worry in them, but also something else—hope, maybe. Zariah didn't know what to do with that.
They sat on the swings after school, like they used to before everything got hard.
"You doing okay?" Jasmine asked.
Zariah didn't answer right away. She looked at the sky, then at her hands. The sleeves of her hoodie were still long, still hiding the scars. But underneath, the fresh ones were finally healing.
"I'm… not falling apart," she whispered.
Jasmine gave her a small nod. "That's something."
"It doesn't feel like enough."
"It never will," Jasmine said softly. "But you're still here. That's enough for me."
Zariah looked down, her chest tight. She hadn't told Jasmine everything—not about how deep the cuts got, not about the night she almost didn't make it. Some secrets still felt like armor. Heavy, yes. But necessary.
At home that night, the silence in her room felt different. Less like a cage. More like a pause.
She pulled out her journal, flipping to a blank page. Her hand shook a little, but she wrote anyway:
I'm scared every day.
But I'm not giving up.
Even when my brain says I should.
Even when the darkness comes back.
I'm still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.
She closed the journal and held it to her chest, like a heartbeat that wasn't hers—but still kept her alive.