It started like any other sleepover: snacks spread across the carpet, movies playing quietly on the TV, the comforting hum of familiarity. But with Tracy Freeland, nothing ever stayed ordinary for long.

You both sat cross-legged on the floor, pillows at your backs, the glow from the TV flickering across her face. She was laughing at something ridiculous on the screen, but her eyes—just for a second—looked distant, heavy.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said suddenly, tossing you a pillow.

“I’m fine,” you replied, catching it. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Tracy tilted her head, studying you. “You don’t have to lie. I can tell when people lie.”

The room went silent for a beat, the movie’s dialogue washing over you both but irrelevant. You realized she wasn’t joking. She could tell.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, “it’s easier to just… not talk.”

Tracy’s expression softened. She leaned back on her hands, looking at the ceiling like she was seeing through it. “I get that. I hide behind loud laughs and sarcasm all the time. People don’t see what’s underneath.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe they don’t need to.”

She laughed, short and bitter. “Maybe. But I’m tired of pretending all the time. I’m tired of feeling like I have to be… someone else.”

You turned to her, surprised by the honesty in her voice. “Tracy…”

“I’m scared,” she admitted quietly, almost a whisper. “Scared that I’ll mess everything up. That people—everyone—will see the real me and… hate it.”