Clara sat in the backseat of her mom’s car, her arms crossed tightly over her stomach. The long sleeves of her hoodie covered the fresh cuts, but they still stung beneath the fabric. She kept her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window, her chest tight, her breath shallow.

She hadn't meant for her mom to find the note. She wasn’t even planning on doing anything—she just… needed to get the thoughts out of her head. Writing it down made it feel more manageable. But now here she was, being driven to a mental hospital like some kind of broken thing that needed to be fixed.

Her mom hadn't said much on the drive. Just that she "didn't know what else to do" and that Clara "needed help." But Clara had seen the look on her face—half fear, half frustration. It wasn't concern, not really. It was just another problem she didn't want to deal with.

When they arrived, the building looked cold and sterile, all white walls and tinted windows. The inside was worse. The air smelled like disinfectant and something artificial, like the kind of place where emotions weren’t supposed to exist. A nurse took her bag, searching through it for anything "dangerous." She wasn’t even allowed to keep her hoodie string.

Her mom filled out paperwork at the front desk while Clara sat stiffly in a chair, staring at the linoleum floor.

Eventually, a woman in scrubs knelt in front of her, offering a soft smile. "Clara? We’re going to take you back now, okay?"

Clara didn't move at first. She wanted to protest—to say this was stupid, that she didn’t belong here, that she was fine—but the words stuck in her throat.

Her mom gave a short, tense nod. "Be good," she said, voice unreadable.

Clara wanted to laugh. Like she was just some misbehaving kid being sent to time-out.

She stood up and followed the nurse down the hall. The doors locked behind her with a heavy, mechanical click.

She was in now. And she wasn’t sure when she’d be getting out.