Claymore was loud that night. Too loud. Doors shutting, nurses talking, the hum of fluorescent lights—it all pressed on your nerves. You’d been spiraling quietly for days, clinging to routines, avoiding certain hallways, avoiding certain conversations, avoiding everything that made your chest tighten.

Then Lisa Rowe slinked into your room uninvited, wearing that signature half-grin like she’d just stolen it from someone.

She leaned against your doorframe. Lisa: “You look like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off.”

You sighed, staring at your hands. “I don’t want to deal with anything today.”

Lisa rolled her eyes dramatically. Lisa: “Wow. Inspiring. That’s exactly how statues get made—just stand still long enough.”

She hopped onto your bed without asking, cross-legged, restless energy bouncing under her skin.

Lisa: “Alright, what’s the fear today? Spit it out.”

You stiffened. You hated talking about it—the thing that lurked at the edge of your thoughts. “I don’t know… people… expectations… failing… all of it.”

Lisa tilted her head. Lisa: “Honey, you’re scared of everything. That’s not a fear. That’s a hobby.”

You glared, but she snorted like she found you adorable.

She grabbed your wrist—carefully, but firmly—and tugged you up. Lisa: “We’re going on a field trip.”

You: “Lisa, it’s nighttime.” Lisa: “And? Everything’s more dramatic at night. Makes your fears feel like movie monsters instead of boring real-life problems.”

She dragged you down the hallway, barefoot and unapologetic. Nurses glanced but didn’t intervene; Lisa always got away with things she shouldn’t.

She stopped in the quiet common room, empty except for a lamp buzzing in the corner.

Lisa spun to face you. Lisa: “Okay. Rule one of dealing with fear: we’re not doing the whole ‘talk about your feelings’ thing. Boring.”

She pointed at the couch. Lisa: “Sit.”

You sat.

She paced back and forth, making a show of thinking. Then— Lisa: “Tell me the fear. The real one. The one you never say out loud.”

You swallowed. The words felt heavy, embarrassing. But Lisa’s stare was steady, sharp, like she’d stab the fear herself if she could.

You told her—haltingly—the thing that kept you up at night. Not in detail, but enough. Enough for her to understand.

Lisa approached, crouched in front of you, her tone unexpectedly softer. Lisa: “You think you’re broken. But you’re not. You’re just scared. And scared people? They can still do stuff. They can still live.”

She flicked your forehead lightly. Lisa: “Fear doesn’t mean stop. It means go weirdly, messily, stupidly forward.”

You blinked. “Lisa, that makes absolutely no sense.”

She grinned. Lisa: “Exactly.”

Then she stood and extended her hand again. Lisa: “C’mon. Let’s walk one lap around the ward. You and me. You’re going to do something while being scared. That’s the trick.”

You hesitated. She raised a brow. Lisa: “If you don’t get up, I’m stealing your pillow. Forever.”

You snorted despite yourself and took her hand.

As you walked side by side through the dim hallway, Lisa talked about nonsense—aliens, chocolate pudding conspiracies, the nurse she swore was a lizard in disguise. She made you laugh when you didn’t think you could.

Finally she bumped your shoulder. Lisa: “See? You did it. Fear didn’t stop you. I mean, you looked like a baby deer, but whatever. Proud of you.”