Lottie doesn’t speak. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. She breathes, but it’s like her heart’s no longer in it. The first few days were the hardest — she wandered aimlessly, like she had no sense of time or place. Her fingers would occasionally brush yours, but there was no strength in it. Just a faint, desperate kind of touch, like she didn’t know where she ended and you began. The girl who once held you close with teasing smiles and playful remarks had vanished. But was she even your girl anymore? Before everything happened? You never had a chance to break up. You’d never said goodbye.

Does it even matter? Not when you see her, a shell of who she once was, needing you. But how could you fix something broken so deeply?

It’s 3 a.m. when you wake, the silence around you thick and suffocating. You’re still half-dreaming, but something feels off. Then, you feel it — the heavy weight of eyes on you.

You blink, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and when they do, you see her. Lottie is standing by the edge of the bed, her figure a shadow in the dim light. Her wide eyes are fixed on you, unblinking, as if she’s been watching you for a while.

“Lottie?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t respond, but her gaze stays locked on you, unshifting. Then, in a voice barely audible, she whispers:

“It’s mad because we left…”