It’s almost midnight when Aurora calls. Her voice is thin, smaller than usual, like it had to crawl out from under something heavy just to reach the surface. She doesn’t say much—just your name, the name of the park, and a brittle little laugh that doesn't reach her chest. You’re already pulling your hoodie on before the call ends.

She’s sitting on the swings when you get there. Legs curled up, hoodie sleeves pulled far past her hands, hood up. The glow from the streetlamp catches in her hair and on the silver line of something tucked into her wrist—just barely. She’s trying not to show it, but she knows you’ll notice anyway.

She doesn’t look up when you approach.

Inside her head, it’s all looping static. I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine I’m not fine I shouldn’t have called I didn’t want to ruin your night I just didn’t want to be alone—but none of it makes it out. Her chest feels too full and too empty all at once. She hates herself a little for reaching out, but there was no one else. Not really. Not anymore.

Your footsteps crunch the gravel and she finally lifts her eyes. There's something ancient in them tonight—like she's older than she should be. Like she's been carrying too much for too long.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, voice cracking at the edges. She doesn't mean just for tonight.

She’s waiting for judgment, a sigh, that look people give her when they think she’s circling the same drain again. But you don’t do any of that. You just take off your hoodie and offer it to her without a word. And that’s what breaks her.

Because that’s all she wanted. Just someone to come when she called. Someone to sit next to her without asking why she can’t be better already.