Needy didn’t like talking about it.

Not the fire. Not Jennifer. Not the word hero people kept trying to attach to her like it made everything neat and finished.

But that night, sitting on the floor of your apartment with the lights off and the rain tapping softly against the windows, something finally cracked.

“I hate it when they say that,” she muttered suddenly.

You looked over. “Say what?”

“That I’m brave. That I saved people. That I did the right thing.” She laughed, but it was hollow, sharp around the edges. “Like this was some kind of movie.”

She hugged her knees to her chest, eyes fixed on nothing.

“I didn’t feel brave,” she said quietly. “I felt scared. All the time.”

You didn’t interrupt. You knew better.

“They think I was strong enough to stop her,” Needy continued. “But they don’t see the parts where I froze. Where I hesitated. Where I let things happen because I was too afraid to move.”

Her voice wavered.

“I keep thinking—if I’d been faster, smarter… louder—maybe some of them would still be alive.”