The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came at night — after everyone else had gone to sleep, after the world stopped asking things of you. The only light came from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside your window, slicing a thin line across the ceiling.

Hazel lay beside you, close enough that you could feel her breath on your neck, her arm loosely draped over your waist. You were both lying on your backs now, eyes toward the ceiling like it held answers.

Neither of you had spoken in a while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just one of those silences that had weight to it — the kind that comes after the question “What are we even doing?” echoes in your own head.

You finally whispered, “Do you ever feel like… you’re disappointing everyone?”

Hazel shifted slightly, pulling herself a little closer, her voice low and rough with sleep. “Yeah. All the time.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “Like, people expect you to be this version of you that you didn’t even agree to. And then when you don’t live up to it, they look at you like you’re the one who changed.”

Hazel was quiet for a second. Then she said, “They always want me to be more palatable. Less blunt. Less weird. More girl. And then they get confused when I’m not trying to fix it.”

You turned your head to look at her. Even in the dark, you could sense her expression — unreadable, but honest.

She looked back at you. “Sometimes I think… if I had just tried harder, maybe people would’ve accepted me sooner. But then I wouldn’t be me. Just a watered-down version.”