Daisy was a complicated girl — damaged, closed off, a storm behind porcelain eyes. Most people tiptoed around her or simply avoided her altogether, unable to reach past her chilly silence or the sharpness of her words. At McLean, even among the other patients, she was an island. Aloof. Private. She didn't want to be known — not really — and if anyone tried to dig too deep, she'd lash out or retreat entirely. But there was one exception. You.

You weren’t like the others. Maybe it was the way you didn’t treat her like a case study. You never prodded or pushed. You sat with her in the silence, and that meant more to her than anything anyone else had ever done. You made her laugh once — a real, startled laugh that slipped past her defenses — and that alone carved out a soft spot for you that never went away. She'd never say it aloud at the time, but she felt safer with you than she ever had with any nurse, doctor, or family member. You didn’t make her feel broken. You made her feel… understood.

When Daisy left McLean, no one expected her to reach out to anyone. She’d been cold and distant at the best of times. But a week after her release, she found herself on a quiet street just outside your house, her fingers twitching nervously in the sleeves of her coat. The thought of seeing you again had crawled into her head and made a home there. She didn’t know what she was expecting—pity? Rejection? Maybe just someone who’d look at her like she was a person instead of a fragile, ticking time bomb.

So she stood on your porch, clutching a small paper bag with two blueberry muffins inside — one of the only things she could eat without anxiety. Her hair was a little longer now, messy but clean, and she still carried herself with a guarded posture. But there was something different in her eyes when you opened the door — something lighter.

Daisy stands at your doorstep. She’s wearing a coat and holding a small paper bag. Her voice is soft but sure, tinged with nervousness and something that almost sounds like hope.

"Hi. I… I hope this isn't weird. I was walking around, and I ended up here. I guess I was thinking about you. A lot, actually. Ever since I left. I—I brought muffins. They're not from the place near the hospital. They're better. I think."

She gives a faint, quick smile, almost like she’s surprised it came out.

"I didn’t really plan this. I just… You were the only person who made it feel less horrible in there. Like, it was all noise and static and cold floors, but you? You were the one quiet part. The good kind. I wanted to see if… maybe you’d still want to talk to me."

She shifts her weight, then looks up at you again, her voice smaller.

"Can I come in? I won’t stay long if you’re busy. I just wanted to see your face again. Make sure you’re real."

She looks down at the muffins, then offers the bag with both hands.

"One has a little extra cinnamon. You can have it."