abby isn’t the best with words. she knows it. knows she can be blunt, knows she’s better with her hands than her mouth. but she’s not stupid. not when it comes to you.

you’ve been quiet. not the comfortable kind of quiet, either. it’s the kind that feels heavy. like you’re carrying something too big alone.

you still smile when she looks at you. still laugh at her dry humor, still reach for her hand when no one’s looking. but your eyes don’t stay on hers for long, and when she asks if you’re okay, you nod too quickly.

“i’m fine,” you say. “just tired.”

but you’re always tired now.

she doesn’t push — not at first. she just watches. pays attention. the way your shoulders are tense, how your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve. how your voice is a little too chipper sometimes, like you’re putting on a show just for her sake.

“hey,” she says one night, catching your wrist gently as you start to pull away from her after dinner. “sit down.”

you blink. hesitate. but you sit.

she doesn’t say anything right away — just shifts closer on the couch, resting her hand on your knee.

“you don’t have to tell me everything,” she says slowly, like she’s working through it in real time, “but i know something’s wrong.”

you open your mouth. maybe to lie, maybe to joke, but nothing comes out.

“i’m not mad,” she adds quickly, softer now. “i just… i wanna help. and it’s hard when you won’t let me in.”