You’re sitting on the floor in the corner of your room, half-empty mug of cold tea next to you, phone face down on the carpet. The curtains are still shut even though it’s late in the afternoon, and the only light is the pale glow of your laptop screen. You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, not really reading anything.

Simon is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s been quiet for a while, just watching you. You can feel it—his stare like a weight between your shoulder blades.

“You’ve been saying you’re tired for weeks,” he finally says, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the fog in your head.

You flinch. “I am tired,” you mutter, not looking at him.

He doesn’t buy it—you can hear it in the silence that follows. “This isn’t just tired,” he says, stepping closer. “You barely eat. You barely talk. You haven’t left this room unless I drag you out.”

Your chest tightens. You want him to shut up. You want him to just sit next to you and not say anything.

He crouches in front of you, his mask of indifference gone. “Are you going to hurt yourself?”