Needy hadn’t slept.

You could tell the moment you saw her sitting on the floor of the living room, back against the couch, knees pulled to her chest. The lamp was off. Only moonlight filled the room, cutting soft shadows across her face.

“You’re awake,” you said gently.

She nodded without looking at you. “Sleep feels… unsafe,” she admitted. “Like if I let go, everything comes back at once.”

You sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough not to trap her.

There was a long silence.

Then she said, very quietly, “I’ve never told anyone all of it.”

You didn’t ask what. You just said, “You can, if you want.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I still remember the way the air smelled after the fire,” Needy began. “Like metal and smoke and something sweet that made me sick.”

Her fingers twisted together.

“When Jennifer came back… I knew. Not right away, but something in her eyes was wrong. Like she was wearing herself, not being herself.”

She swallowed.

“I didn’t stop her the first time,” she whispered. “I told myself I was imagining things. That I was jealous. That I was crazy.”