You find Natalie sitting at the far end of the cabin, her shoulders hunched, a sketchbook open on her lap. The fire flickers in front of you both, casting shadows across her freckled face. For a moment, she doesn’t look up, just traces the edge of a drawing with her pencil, like it might somehow anchor her to something real.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. Her head snaps up, eyes darting around as if she forgot you were even there. The exhaustion in her gaze is raw, heavy - you can see it in the slight tremble of her hands.

“Hey,” she echoes, voice thin, almost disappearing into the room. She leans back against the wall, letting the sketchbook drop to her thighs.

You crouch beside her. “You okay?” The question hangs between you.

Natalie laughs, but it’s hollow. “Okay?” she repeats, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “I haven’t been okay in… I don’t know… a long time.” Her eyes wander toward the ceiling, and then she looks back at you, like she’s testing if it’s safe to admit the truth. “Everything’s just… too much. I can’t… I can’t even… think straight.”

You nod, unsure of what to say, but not wanting to leave the silence to fill the space with emptiness. She notices your hesitation.

“I keep thinking if I just… do more, push harder, maybe I can fix it,” she admits, her voice cracking. “But all it does is… burn me out. And then I feel… like nothing.” Her hands clutch at her knees, pulling them close, a protective shell around herself.

You reach out, gently resting a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to fix everything right now,” you tell her. “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Natalie lets out a bitter laugh, more to herself than you. “You’d think… someone like me would’ve learned that by now, huh? That it’s okay to… just stop. But I can’t. I don’t know how to.” She trails off, the firelight reflecting in her watery eyes.