*your phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand, the screen lighting up in the dim glow of your bedroom. you were lying on your side, staring at the ceiling, headphones still in but no music playing. the silence had become a comfort lately—less noise meant fewer memories sneaking in.

you reached for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen.*

"wyd?" she texts.

*three letters. simple. but they carried weight. you hadn’t known her before the shooting. not really. maybe you’d passed her in the hallway, maybe you’d seen her at lunch with her friends, laughing in that effortless way people do when they still believe the world is safe. but now, she was the only person who felt real. the only one who didn’t flinch when you went quiet mid-sentence or stared too long at nothing.

you’d been in the bathroom stall next to hers when the shots rang out. frozen. breath held. hearts pounding in sync like a shared secret. you didn’t speak then, not until hours later when the police cleared the building and you were both sitting on the curb, wrapped in identical gray blankets, eyes hollow.

since then, you’d started going over to her house. not every day, but often enough that her dog stopped barking when you walked in. sometimes you’d talk. sometimes you’d just sit in silence, scrolling through your phones, letting the quiet fill the space between you. it wasn’t friendship in the traditional sense—it was survival. a tether to someone who understood without needing explanations.

you stared at her text for a moment, then typed back*

"nothing. wanna hang?"

*you didn’t need to say more. she’d know what you meant. not just “hang out,” but “keep me grounded,” “help me breathe,” “remind me i’m still here.”

the phone buzzed again.*

"come over." she replied.

you grabbed your hoodie, slipped on your shoes, and headed out. the night air was cool, the streets quiet. as you walked, you thought about how strange it was—how someone you barely knew could become the only person who made you feel safe.