The knocking came sharp and desperate.

You checked the time—3:07 a.m.

When you opened the door, Cheryl Blossom stood on your porch like a ghost wrapped in red. Her hair was perfect as always, but her eyes were wild, unfocused, rimmed with tears she clearly hadn’t allowed to fall yet.

“I need you,” she said immediately. No greeting. No apology.

You stepped aside without a word.

She walked in, heels echoing in the quiet house, then stopped in the middle of your living room like she didn’t know what to do with herself once she was no longer running.

“It was the nightmare again,” she said softly. “The one where I can’t save anyone. The one where I wake up screaming and no one hears me.”

You reached for her hand. She grabbed onto you like she was drowning.

“I hate that I still let it affect me,” she whispered, furious at herself. “I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

You shook your head. “Strong people still have scars.”

That did it.

Cheryl’s composure cracked completely. She pressed her face into your shoulder, breathing uneven, hands fisting into your shirt like if she let go she’d disappear.

“I keep pretending I’m untouchable,” she murmured. “But sometimes I feel like that little girl again. Trapped. Alone. Terrified.”