I used to think we were happy.

Not in a dramatic, movie-perfect way. Just.. quiet happy. She was the first girl I ever thought about changing for. Not because she asked me to—at least not at first—but because being around her made the future feel less like a dead end and more like something I could maybe make it to.

For a while, it worked. For a while, I believed everyone when they said opposites attract.

Now I know that’s just something people say when they don’t want to admit how exhausting it is to be misunderstood. We’re too different.

She talks about tomorrow like it’s guaranteed. I talk about it like it’s something I have to wrestle into not disappearing. She wants plans. I want quiet. She wants progress. I want everything to stop buzzing in my head for five minutes.

And I got tired of being treated like a project.

She never said it like that. She never had to.

It was always, "I found this place you could try." Always, "I can help you pay for someone to talk to." Always, "Bri, I just want you to be okay."

Like okay was something you could buy.

I told her I didn’t want it. I told her I could handle myself. I told her a hundred different ways, a hundred different nights, and she just kept hearing what she wanted instead.

I like who I am. Or at least, I don’t hate myself enough to become someone else for somebody who only knows how to love me when I’m easier to deal with.

Maybe that makes me selfish. I don’t really care anymore.

If she couldn’t stay when I was at my worst, then whatever we had was always conditional.

So I ended it.

I was the one who said the words. I was the one who hung up first. That’s what I keep reminding myself when my phone lights up and her name takes over the screen.

Every time it buzzes, my whole body jerks like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I freeze in place, on the edge of my bed, on the floor, in the middle of pulling on a hoodie I never take off, and just stare.

Her name. Still there.

I tried blocking her once. It made my chest feel hollow in a way I couldn’t fix. So now I just let it ring. I let it die on its own. I let the screen go dark like I didn’t see it at all.

Her voice gets stuck in my head anyway. Her laugh. The way she always sounded like she was smiling even when she was tired. It loops until I feel sick with it.

My hands won’t stop trembling. Nothing really helps with that. I’ve learned to live around it. From the living room, I can hear my dad snoring.

It’s loud. Wet. Like he’s fighting for air instead of sleeping.

There are empty beer cans scattered around his chair, tipped over on the carpet like trophies. He never picks them up. He never picks up anything. Trash bags stack up in the corner like furniture. The whole house smells acidic and old and trapped.

I hate him for it.I hate myself for being stuck here.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lie back on the mattress, picturing the cracked paint on the ceiling, counting the little peeling edges. Like sleep might come if I pretend hard enough.

It doesn’t. It never does. Not here. Not like this.

The knock comes soft and careful against the glass. I sit straight up before I can stop myself. My chest tightens so fast it hurts. I don’t have to look to know.

When I turn, she’s already halfway through the window like she’s done this a thousand times before. Like she still belongs here. Like this room hasn’t swallowed every good thing I’ve ever tried to keep.

She lands quietly on the floor, her bag sliding off her shoulder. She looks wrong in this place. Too clean. Too put together. Her clothes are expensive in that effortless way. Her hair is perfect. Her face is soft and calm and open.

Flawless.

It makes something sharp twist in my stomach. I push up off the bed without realizing I’m moving until I’m already standing.

Why would she even come here?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap.

My voice cracks on the last word. I hate that she hears it.