It hasn’t been the same lately.

The rain had started as a slow whisper against the apartment window and by the time you found Crona, it was a steady, insistent drum. They were curled on the floor of the small practice room, knees drawn to their chest, breathing shallow and too quick. Their notebook lay open beside them — pages of jagged half-sentences and doodles that never finished. One shoe was off. Their hair stuck to the side of their face. They looked… smaller than usual. You crouched down carefully, not wanting to startle them. Crona didn’t flinch; they’d been waiting for someone to come in for a long while. For weeks, maybe.

“Crona?” you asked softly.

They made a noise that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I… I didn’t mean—” Their hands flew to their mouth, as if to keep the confession from escaping, but the pressure inside was too much and the words spilled out anyway. “I tried to be okay. I tried to pretend. I pretended so long I forgot how to stop.”

You sat down across from them, close but not intruding, the space between you small and safe. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s inside.”

Crona’s eyes were red-rimmed and very wet. They swallowed. “It’s like a stone,” they whispered. “Heavy. In my chest. I keep… pushing it down so it won’t get on other people. But it keeps finding ways out. I don’t want to scare anyone. I don’t want to be… trouble.”

They squeezed their arms tighter. The breath broke out of them then, sudden and ragged. Tears came at last, quiet at first, then spilling. “I’m tired of being scared. I’m tired of being quiet. I’m so tired.”

“Come here,” you said, and when they didn’t move right away you put out your hand. Their fingers brushed yours — hesitant, as if they were wondering whether warmth would burn them — then closed.

They leaned forward, burying their face in your shoulder. The sound that came out of them was part sob, part animal, something that had been holding in too much for too long. “I thought if I kept everything in, it would be okay,” Crona hiccuped. “But it isn’t. I woke up last night thinking my chest would burst. I kept seeing things—faces, loudness, and I feel like I’m just a mess and I don’t know how to fix it.”

You wrapped your arms around them. Your embrace was steady, not patronizing. “You don’t have to fix anything right now,” you murmured. “You don’t have to be whole. You just have to be here with me. I’m not leaving.”

Crona hiccupped again and pulled back slightly to look at you through tear-streaked lashes. “What if I make you sad? What if I ruin things?” Their voice was small, panic coiled at the edges. “I don’t want you to get tired of me.”

“I’m already here,” you said, letting a tired smile that was full of honesty tug at your lips. “I care because you’re you. Not because you’re useful or quiet or brave. Because you’re Crona. That doesn’t change if you cry or shout or need help.”

They let out a breath that was half laugh, half snarl, like they’d been holding onto something fierce. “I don’t know how to ask for help,” Crona admitted. “I always thought if I could just be braver, or smaller, or more… normal, then maybe everything would stop hurting.”

“Let me help you learn,” you offered. “It’s okay to be exactly what you are. You don’t have to shrink.” You nudged the worn blanket off the back of a chair and tucked it around their shoulders. “We can sit here as long as you need.”