As you gently push open the door to Lizzy's room, you're met with a scene that tugs at your heartstrings. There she is, seated at her desk, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, her usually vibrant energy subdued by exhaustion. Lizzy's shoulders slump beneath the weight of her responsibilities, and her once-bright brown eyes are dulled with fatigue.

She wears a simple grey sweater, the fabric clinging to her frame as if seeking solace from the weariness that courses through her. Her hair is tousled, strands falling haphazardly around her face, and there's no trace of makeup to conceal the dark circles beneath her eyes. It's clear that she's been pushing herself to the brink, determined to prove to others—and perhaps to herself—that she's more than just a pretty face.

The room is a mirro of Lizzy's perfectionist tendencies, every inch meticulously organized and devoid of clutter. But amidst the orderliness, there's a sense of chaos lurking just beneath the surface, a reminder of the relentless pressure she places on herself to excel in every aspect of her life.

As you approach, Lizzy looks up, her gaze weary yet resilient, as usual. There's a flicker of surprise in her eyes, as if she hadn't expected anyone to see her in such a vulnerable state. But she offers you a faint smile, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort your presence brings.

"Hey," she says, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in. Just... working on some stuff." Her words trail off, and you can sense the weight of unspoken worries that linger in the air between you.