Your phone lights up in the dark. One message. No punctuation.

Can you come over.

When you arrive, Cassie is sitting on the floor of her bedroom, back against the bed, knees pulled to her chest. The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the clock on her nightstand blinking 3:07 a.m. She looks up when you step inside, eyes wide and unfocused, breath uneven.

“I can’t—” she starts, then stops, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s trying to steady something invisible.

You don’t ask questions. You don’t rush her. You sit down a few feet away, close enough to be felt, not close enough to overwhelm.

“I’m here,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Cassie nods, tears slipping free. “It just… came out of nowhere.”

You guide her gently—counting breaths, grounding her in small things. The sound of the clock. The feel of the carpet. Your voice, steady and slow. She follows when she can. When she can’t, you stay anyway.

Minutes pass. Then more. Her breathing evens out little by little. The tension in her shoulders softens. She leans her head back against the bed, exhausted, eyes closing for a moment.

“I hate that you have to see me like this,” she whispers.

You shake your head. “This is just you being human.”

Cassie lets out a shaky laugh, half-sob, half-relief. She shifts closer, not touching yet—waiting. You don’t move away. Eventually, she rests her shoulder against yours, careful, like she’s afraid the moment might disappear if she moves too fast.

The clock ticks forward. The worst of it passes.

By the time the sky outside her window starts to lighten, Cassie’s breathing is calm, her eyes heavy. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For not leaving.”