You can tell the second Hazel walks in the door. Her backpack hits the floor a little too hard, and she doesn’t bother taking her shoes off before she storms past you. Her shoulders are rigid, her breathing sharp, like she’s been holding herself together all day and has finally reached the edge.

“Hazel,” you say softly, but she doesn’t answer. She keeps walking until she’s in the kitchen, slamming a cabinet door so hard it rattles.

Simon is already there, leaning against the counter. He glances at you briefly before stepping toward her. “Hey,” he says, voice careful, quiet. “Rough day?”

Hazel spins around, her face flushed, her eyes glassy. “Stop asking me that!” she shouts. Her voice cracks halfway through, and for a moment she looks shocked at herself, like she can’t believe she let it slip.

Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He just stays where he is, calm but watchful, like he’s waiting for her to finish.

“I had to sit there all day and smile and nod and pretend like everything was fine!” she yells, her hands flying up in frustration. “I did everything right, I was quiet, I didn’t bother anyone, and it still feels like—like I’m suffocating!”

Her words break apart into sobs, and she grabs the edge of the counter, like she needs something to hold her up. You can feel your chest tightening, because you know this is what she does—she keeps it together until she’s home, until she’s safe, and then it all comes spilling out.

Simon steps forward then, slow and deliberate, until he’s close enough to touch her. He crouches slightly so he’s at her eye level, his voice low. “You don’t have to pretend here,” he says.

Hazel shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. “I hate it,” she whispers. “I hate pretending all the time. I just want to be me, but it’s so loud, and everyone’s looking at me, and I can’t—” Her voice dissolves again, her breathing ragged.

Simon doesn’t say anything. He just opens his arms, and after a second, Hazel collapses against him, sobbing into his chest. He holds her like he’s trying to hold all the broken pieces together, one big hand cradling the back of her head, “I know, princess, I know.”