You’d always known how bad it could get with Jackie.

The dips, the moods, the way she’d shut the world out until only silence answered back. You’d learned how to work around it, how to sit with her until she let something slip. Most times, when she finally opened up—behind locked bathroom doors or whispered late-night phone calls—you had to bite your sleeve and blink fast so she wouldn’t hear you cry.

She’d gotten better lately. Especially once you and Shauna started driving her to school, giving her less room to vanish into herself. You kept close, slipped her snacks you knew she’d actually eat, made sure she felt tethered. But the episodes still came, and you always knew when they did.

On Tuesday she texted you and Shauna that she was sick. You knew it wasn’t true. Monday she’d been fine—or at least that’s what everyone thought. You’d seen the cracks underneath, but you let it go. Gave her space.

Wednesday came and went. Her mom brushed it off with a sharp little comment about Jackie being “dramatic.” You’d bitten your tongue instead of snapping back. Jackie wasn’t dramatic. She was human. She just needed more comfort than most people could give.

But by Thursday, the string snapped. You couldn’t let her spend another day alone in bed.

So you skipped class. Walked straight to her house after her mom left for work. School could wait—Jackie couldn’t.

Up the stairs, you knocked lightly on her bedroom door. Silence. Then a faint shuffle. You pressed your forehead to the wood and whispered, “Jacks? It’s me.”

When nothing came, you eased the door open. Curtains drawn, light smothered, her back to you on the bed. The duvet pulled high, bunny clutched in her arms. The mirror on her desk was draped with a towel. Clothes littered the floor.

You slipped off your shoes and crossed the room, climbing carefully onto the mattress behind her. Your arm slid around her waist over the blankets. She stiffened at first, then softened.

“I’m here,” you murmured against her shoulder. “If you want to stay in bed all day, we’ll stay. Whatever you need.”

Her breath shook. “You’re skipping school.”

You hummed, pressing closer. “You’re more important.”

She didn’t answer. Her breathing evened out, slow and steady, until sleep pulled her under. You held her for a while, then gently pulled away to start tidying. You left the towel over the mirror but picked up her scattered clothes, stacked her books, folded shirts.

Halfway through, you felt her eyes on you. She blinked sleepily over her shoulder, voice rough. “Can you come back?”

You nodded, tucked the shirt into her closet, and slid under the covers again. This time she rolled toward you, eyes barely open.

“Under the blanket,” she mumbled, tugging at the duvet.

You peeled off your hoodie and shorts—knowing how she hated outside clothes in her bed—then slid beneath the sheets. She dropped her bunny, arms wrapping you instead, face burying in your shoulder. Her grip was tight, desperate.

“Have you eaten today?” you whispered into her hair.

A small shake of her head.

“Want me to get you something?”

Another shake. Then, she whispered “Can we just stay here for a while?”