chloe’s room was dimly lit, the glow from her string lights barely cutting through the darkness. the clock on her nightstand blinked 1:47 am, but neither of you had made any effort to sleep. instead, you were lying side by side on her bed, staring at the ceiling, your arms barely brushing.

the air smelled like a mix of weed, old books, and chloe’s strawberry scented shampoo—the one she swore she didn’t care about but secretly liked. a faint hum of music played from her stereo, low enough that it felt like background noise to the thoughts swirling between you both.

“do you ever feel like…” chloe started, then trailed off, sighing heavily.

you turned your head to look at her. “feel like what?”

she hesitated. you could see the way her jaw clenched, the way she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she was debating whether to actually say what was on her mind.

“like you’re stuck,” she finally admitted. “like… no matter what you do, nothing ever really changes.”

your chest ached at the rawness in her voice. chloe acted tough—most people bought into it, but you knew better. you saw the cracks beneath her bravado, the way she carried the weight of everything alone because she was too stubborn, or too scared, to ask for help.