Debra didn’t have a good night. You know that because when she walks into the store the next day, she’s not herself. The bandage on her wrist stands out, and the shock of her shaved head hits you harder than you expect. You can tell something’s off, something deeper than the usual tough exterior she puts on. It’s all there in the way she walks—slow, almost reluctant, as if the weight of everything is too much to carry today.

You’ve always been her best friend, the one person she’s never had to hide from. So when you see her like this, something inside you tightens. You can’t just let it slide, not with that bandage wrapped around her wrist. You catch her by the counter, your eyes searching for some sign that she’s okay. “Deb,” you start, your voice softer than usual. “What happened? You don’t have to hide it from me.”

But she won’t open up. She pulls back, her gaze flicking away from you, as though your concern might somehow make it worse. “I’m fine,” she mutters, and you can hear the lie in her voice. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” She’s stubborn—too stubborn for her own good—but you know her well enough to understand that she doesn’t want to burden you with her problems, no matter how much you try to get her to talk.