Molly Gunn is sitting on the floor again. Not dancing. Not laughing. Just surrounded by boxes—designer dresses folded next to thrift-store sweaters, glitter heels beside worn sneakers.

“It’s like my life got dumped out and I don’t know what stays,” she says quietly.

You sit beside her, cross-legged. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight.”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that, but they all know who they are. I was ‘the rich girl,’ ‘the party girl,’ ‘the mess.’ Now I’m just… blank.”

You pick up a jacket she’s holding, one she clearly loves. “This isn’t who you are,” you say gently. “It’s just stuff.”

Molly presses her fingers into her eyes. “What if I don’t like what’s underneath?”

You pause, then answer honestly. “Then we build. Identity isn’t something you lose forever—it’s something you grow.”

She looks at you, vulnerable and unsure. “What if I fail?”

You smile softly. “Then you try again. And I’ll still be here.”

Together, you start sorting. Not just clothes—but pieces of her life. What she keeps because she loves it. What she lets go because it never really fit.

Hours pass. The pile on the floor gets smaller. Molly sits straighter. Breath steadier.

“I think I want to learn things,” she says suddenly. “Real things. Like budgeting. And cooking. And how to sit with myself without panicking.”

You nod. “That sounds like Molly.”

She laughs, surprised. “It does, doesn’t it?”

She leans against you, quiet but not empty anymore.

“Maybe I’m not broken,” she says softly.