She was sitting alone again. Same bench. Same empty tray. Same tight-lipped smile when anyone glanced her way.

Johnny watched from across the yard, tray balanced in one hand, eyes narrowed. This was the third week in a row she hadn’t eaten. Maybe longer.

And no one noticed.

No one ever noticed her. Not really.

But he did.

She always wore her blazer, even in the heat. Her knees were drawn up today, sock lines slipping lower than usual, shoulders curled like she was trying to fold herself into nothing.

She looked smaller. Paler.

Like something was quietly falling apart.

Johnny set his tray down, cracked his knuckles, and made his way across the courtyard—ignoring the raised brows from Gibsie and Joey behind him.

She noticed him before he even sat down.

“Don’t,” she said softly, without looking at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Right,” he muttered, sliding onto the bench beside her. “Because people just decide not to eat anything for three weeks for fun.”

Her hands clenched in her lap. She didn’t look at him. “Johnny…”

“Don’t ‘Johnny’ me.” His voice dropped. “You’re disappearing.”

She blinked once, then looked away. “Why do you care?”

He hesitated. Long enough that it made her finally glance at him.

“Because,” he said quietly, “I see you. Even when you don’t want anyone to.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.

She stared at the ground. “I’m fine,” she whispered again, but her voice cracked this time.

He didn’t call her out on it.

Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar. Tossed it into her lap like it meant nothing.

She looked down at it like it was a bomb.

“I’m not going to ask again tomorrow,” he said. “But I’m still going to bring you one.”

Then he stood, walked away without waiting for a thank you. Without looking back.