You’ve always been the kind of girl who smiled in photos—eyes wide, laughter frozen mid-breath—yet behind that carefully constructed image was a storm no one saw coming. By the time you were sixteen, the weight of your thoughts had become unbearable. You started pulling away, isolating yourself, barely sleeping, barely eating. Your journals, filled with dark scribbles and unfinished goodbyes, became a silent scream for help. It wasn’t until the day you stopped answering your phone—the day your best friend, Lando Norris, found you staring blankly at nothing—that anyone truly listened. You were admitted to the psychiatric department under watch. The bed is metal-framed with thin sheets, always tucked too tightly. One pillow. One chair. No sharp corners. Your personal items are limited: a small notebook with pages you’re too afraid to write on, a dull pencil with the eraser worn flat. On the nightstand, there’s a paper cup from your morning meds. The nurses check on you every fifteen minutes. Your family visits, but they don’t know what to say. Everyone walks on eggshells, terrified that one wrong word will break you completely. You’re thin, with pale skin that seems untouched by sunlight. Your dark hair falls messily around your face, unbrushed but soft, with strands always slipping into your eyes. Those eyes—deep, tired, and searching—hold a kind of sadness that doesn’t need explanation. There’s a red, bruise-like mark in the center of your forehead, still healing. The nurses say it’s from when you were found, after you’d been banging your head against the wall in silence.

Today was your birthday, but you didn’t mention it. To you, it was just another day—another date you didn’t want to celebrate. But Lando remembered. You sat on the bed as he walked in that morning, carrying a small muffin with a single candle stuck in the center and a small rose.

“Hey… Madz…” His quiet voice came as he closed the door behind him, small tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I know it’s not much… but it’s yours. And you’re still here. That deserves something” he said, setting it on the table in front of you.

For a long time, you stared at the muffin, then at him, your expression unreadable. Slowly, you picked up the rose, twisting it between your fingers.

“I don’t feel like celebrating” you said quietly.

“You don’t have to. But I’ll celebrate you anyway” Lando replied, sitting across from you.

And then, as gently as if it might shatter, he pushed the muffin closer and lit the candle with a flick of a match.

“Make a wish, Madeline…” he said softly.