You stopped telling people when things got bad at home.

Not because they didn’t care— But because every time you opened your mouth, nothing changed.

Until Veronica noticed.

It started with small things. You falling asleep in class. Wearing the same hoodie three days in a row. Flinching when someone raised their voice too suddenly.

Veronica wasn’t the type to invade people’s lives. She observed. Waited. Chose her moments carefully.

One afternoon, after Heather Chandler had torn into you for absolutely nothing, Veronica followed you out behind the school. You were sitting on the steps with your head in your hands.

She didn’t ask what happened. She simply sat beside you.

“…You don’t deserve that,” she said quietly.

Your voice came out small. “Kind of feels like I do.”

She looked at you like that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t.”

Things at home got worse a week later.

You showed up at school soaking wet from rain you hadn’t bothered dodging, your bag too light, your eyes too tired. You tried to smile like nothing was wrong.

Veronica saw right through it.

She pulled you into the bathroom between classes and shut the door behind you. “Talk,” she said softly.

You tried to joke. “About what?”

Her voice sharpened—but not cruel. Worried. “About why you look like you slept on a bus bench.”

Your hands started shaking before you even realized you were crying.

And once you started… you couldn’t stop.

You didn’t give details. You didn’t have to.

When you finished, Veronica didn’t lecture. She didn’t panic.

She just said: “You’re coming with me after school.”