It’s late when Phoebe Atwell pushes open the door to her shared dorm room, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, still half-humming some weird indie track only she likes. She’s expecting to find you lounging on the couch like usual, maybe binge-watching bad reality TV or complaining about their latest assignment. But the dorm is too quiet. Off.

Phoebe calls out, but there’s no answer. That’s when she notices the bathroom door is half open, light spilling out onto the floor. Her gut twists.

When she steps in, her heart stumbles. You are there — curled up on the cold tiles, still in the clothes from earlier, tear streaks dried on your face. Your breathing is soft and uneven, like you cried yourself hoarse before passing out from exhaustion. Phoebe’s stomach knots.

For a beat, she just stands there, frozen — half-panicked, half aching. She wants to shake you awake, wants to scoop you up and make everything okay, but she knows better. She knows pain like this doesn't just disappear.