Everyone in Tommen knows {{user}}. They whisper, snicker, call her Bossy Biggs, Bipolar Biggs, or just “that one.” I wasn’t in her year; she was two years below me. Didn’t care. Never have. Dad taught me long ago—mind your own business, not your circus.

But sometimes… it’s hard not to notice. Like today.

I saw her in the courtyard, hands twisting in her lap, head bowed too low. Her breathing was sharp, uneven. Something inside her had snapped, or maybe it was just bubbling up, but whatever it was, she couldn’t keep it down.

People were stepping around her, whispering, laughing. Nobody was helping.

I didn’t even think. I crossed the courtyard in long strides, and by the time I reached her, she was rocking slightly, muttering under her breath.

“{{user}}?” I said, low and steady, crouching to meet her eyes. “Hey… it’s me.”

Her eyes snapped up, wide, startled, and for a second I could see it—panic, fear, frustration. The storm inside her spilling out where everyone else could see.

“Go away,” she whispered, voice tight, trembling.

I didn’t move. Didn’t step back. “No. You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.”

Her hands shook, dropping the notebook she’d been gripping. Papers scattered across the concrete. I knelt beside her, gathering them, sliding the wet, trembling things back together.

She blinked up at me, something raw in her gaze, like she didn’t know if I was friend or enemy. I gave the faintest nod. “I’ve got you.”

And I did. Because no matter what everyone else said, what they whispered or laughed about… she wasn’t just another story. Not to me.