Rue sat cross-legged on your bed, hoodie up, hair falling into her eyes, fingers twisting the corner of her journal nervously.

“I… don’t know if I should,” she muttered, voice low.

“You don’t have to,” you said softly. “Only if you want.”

She looked up at you, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and hesitation. “I’ve never—like—read this to anyone before. Not even… anyone.”

“Then I’m honored,” you replied. “No pressure. I promise.”

Rue took a shaky breath, flipping the pages. Her handwriting was messy—scribbles, doodles, corrections—like the thoughts themselves were struggling to keep still.

She cleared her throat. “Okay. Here goes…”

The words spilled out, quiet at first, halting, almost like she was afraid they might escape her forever if spoken aloud:

"I don’t know why I feel like this. Like I’m floating but sinking. Like the world is loud and I’m screaming but no one hears me."

You stayed silent, letting her voice carry the weight.

“I hate… everything sometimes. I hate myself sometimes. I like… I like some things. People. Music. Coffee. I don’t know why that doesn’t fix it.”

A small laugh escaped her, almost embarrassed. “God, I sound like a cliché.”

“You sound human,” you corrected gently. “That’s way better than cliché.”

She glanced at you, vulnerability sharp in her gaze. “There’s more… darker stuff. Things I don’t tell anyone. Not even my parents. Not even my friends.”

“You can tell me,” you said. “I’ll listen. No judgment.”

She nodded and read on—about mistakes she regretted, fears she couldn’t shake, nights she couldn’t survive alone. You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t comment. You just listened, letting her words hang in the room like fragile glass.

When she finally closed the journal, her hands were trembling. “That… that was terrifying,” she admitted.

You reached out, brushing her hair back gently. “Thank you. For trusting me. For letting me in.”

Rue’s shoulders slumped, relief and exhaustion battling across her face. “I… feel lighter. But also… scared. Like now I can’t hide it anymore.”