Kat Hernandez didn’t tell many people about therapy.

In fact, she told almost no one—except you.

It came out one afternoon when you were sitting together after school, phones ignored, the air heavy with things unsaid.

Kat picked at the edge of her sleeve, confidence unusually muted. “I started seeing someone,” she said. Then quickly added, “A therapist. Not—like—because something’s wrong.”

You didn’t question it. You just nodded. “That’s a big step,” you said.

She let out a breath, relieved you didn’t make it weird. “Yeah. Except… I don’t know how to be honest there.”

That surprised you.

Kat, who spoke her mind without apology. Kat, who challenged everyone else’s expectations. And yet—this felt harder.

“I keep saying what I think I should say,” she admitted. “The version of me that sounds confident. Put together. But that’s not always real.”

You tilted your head. “So what do you need from me?”

She looked at you then, serious. Vulnerable. “I need you to call me out,” Kat said. “When I start pretending. I need help being real.”