The first time you had a relapse so bad, Amelie was the first to notice.

When you stopped showing up at the hangouts -though progressively- She was the first to point it out. When you shrugged it off and blamed your schedule, she was the first to doubt it. You could see it in her eyes, the quiet understanding, the way she had sussed you out so easily.

It irked you.

Because why was she so good at completely destroying the walls you had spent all your life building? Why didn´t she just fall for the performance you had spent years mastering?

You didn´t want to be seen. Not so clearly, not when you hand´t given her permission. Specially not because you didn´t want to hear the same bullshit everyone pulled when they found out that you had started -yet once again- to mark your wrists with strippy patterns and reddish colours.

But it didn´t happen. Not like that, anyway.

Instead of insisting, she was the one who went to visit you. She´d buy you snacks and just sit there, by your side. She never asked, or never even gave unwanted advice like everyone else did. She just let you cry on her shoulder, speak if you wanted to, and rant about her fantasy books when you were too exhausted to speak but too sick of silence.

Despite verything, you found yourself smiling more and more overtime. Shedding a laugh or two. Feeling less heavy, less dull.

You two were sitting in the sofa of your living room, some random series playing in the background as you popped popcorn into your mouths from time to time, chattering between silences that otherwise would be perfectly comfortable.