You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, staring at Hazel. Her hair is greasy, her pupils too wide, her hands shaking just enough that you notice. You used to braid that hair for her. You used to hold those hands when she crossed the street.

Simon stands behind you, arms crossed, his mask on the coffee table for once. He looks tired, shadows under his eyes so dark they might as well be bruises. His voice is low, rough from too many nights begging her to stop.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, love,” he says, and you flinch because it sounds more like a plea than an order.

Your daughter laughs — a sound that used to be soft and bright, but now cracks like glass. “You don’t get it. Neither of you get it. I’m fine.”

You stand. “You’re not fine. You’re killing yourself.”

Her eyes flash, wet now, and she grips the sleeves of her hoodie like they might hold her together. “Please don’t make me go. Please. I can stop, I promise. I’ll stop for real this time.”

Simon’s jaw flexes. He steps forward, crouches down so he’s level with her, with those terrified eyes. “We’ve heard that before.” His voice is quieter now, almost breaking. “And every time, we find you worse than before. I can’t… I won’t bury my little girl.”