You had disappeared.

No warning. No missed call excuses. No half-asleep texts telling Natalie you’d overslept or that you’d pick her up from her trailer instead of walking.

Just silence.

At first she told herself you were sick. You always let her know if you were sick. Even if you felt awful, you’d still send a short message or call her before she left for school. That was your thing.

But this time, nothing.

The day before you vanished, she’d noticed something was off. You’d been quieter than usual, your smiles smaller, slower. In class you kept rubbing at your chest absentmindedly. You’d dozed off during breaks when the two of you usually talked. And when she’d been at soccer training, she’d glanced up to see you stretched out on the bleachers instead of watching completely passed out, one arm dangling over the side.

She hadn’t been mad. Just worried.

When she’d asked, you brushed it off with that same small smile and said you were tired.

Then you were gone.

No school. No late night calls. No random taps at her trailer window. No you sitting in the grass during practice.

After a week, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter.

So she went to your house.

She walked around back, through the garden, up the outside steps. The spare key you’d given her felt heavier than usual in her palm. She unlocked the door quietly and slipped inside, closing it behind her.

Your bedroom door was shut. The lock was turned.

She inhaled slowly, taking in the room. The window was cracked open just a little, cool air drifting in. Empty water bottles sat scattered on the floor and desk. The bathroom door was slightly ajar.

Her chest tightened.

Then she saw you.

You were asleep on top of the sheets, half covered by a blanket that had slipped low around your hips. A pale yellow pillow was tucked beneath your cheek, and you were curled slightly onto your side. You wore a dark green tank top that clung faintly to your skin, damp with sweat at the collar and chest. Your short hair was messy, flattened on one side from sleep. One arm hung off the bed, fingers loose and barely brushing the floor tiles.

You looked exhausted. Not just sleepy drained.

Natalie kicked off her boots and crossed the room quietly. When she sat beside you, the mattress dipped and your brow twitched faintly. She reached out, brushing her fingers through your hair, gently untangling it from your forehead.

You grumbled, face scrunching slightly, eyes fluttering but not fully opening.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s just me.”

Your lashes lifted just enough to recognize her before falling again. “Nat?.. what are you doing here?” Your voice was hoarse, barely louder than breath, and you leaned instinctively into her touch.

“I got worried,” she murmured, her hand sliding to the back of your neck, rubbing gently. “You weren’t answering.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your breathing stayed slow, but she could feel the tension in your muscles under her palm.

“Why did you disappear?” she asked softly, her thumb brushing over your skin.

Silence lingered.

Her hand drifted from your neck to your shoulder, squeezing carefully, feeling how tight the muscle was. You winced faintly even in your half-asleep state.

“Just… my ribs started hurting,” you finally whispered. “And then my dysphoria hit me really bad.”

Her hand stilled.

“Your… ribs?” she repeated quietly, already knowing the answer. “Because of your binder?”

You hummed weakly.

She swallowed, guilt flickering across her face. “You should’ve told me.”

You didn’t argue. You just looked tired.

Natalie shifted carefully, crawling behind you on the bed. She wrapped one arm around your torso, cautious and gentle, her other hand resting lightly against your side instead of squeezing. Her leg draped over yours over the blanket, holding you without pressing too hard.

“Are they bruised?” She asked quietly as her hand slid up to rest against your ribs.