It was the middle of your junior year, the kind of year everyone swore would be unforgettable. They meant football games under bright stadium lights and glittering promposals. They meant late-night drives with music too loud and windows rolled down. They meant senior year hovering on the horizon and freedom just close enough to taste. They didn’t mean waking up already exhausted. They didn’t mean lying in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself to move. Trying to remember why it mattered that you did. You didn’t know when it started again. Depression was quiet like that. It didn’t knock. It slipped in through the cracks. Maybe it was the whispers in the hallway. The way your name felt sharp when it left certain mouths. Maybe it was the comments online that stacked up like bricks on your chest. Or maybe it was nothing anyone could point to. That was the worst part. You had an okay life. Both of your parents were there. They argued more than they used to, but they still kissed each other goodbye in the mornings. Your mom still asked about your homework. Your dad still reminded you to drive safe. You had decent grades. You had friends. And you had Mason Carter. Mason Carter with his crooked smile and messy brown hair. Mason Carter who smelled like laundry detergent and something steady. Mason Carter who wrapped his arms around you like he could shield you from everything if he just held tight enough. You had one of the best boyfriends anyone could ask for. That almost made it worse. Because you had no reason to feel like this. The guilt became its own weight. You would sit in class staring at your notes and think, Other people have it worse. You would look at Mason and think, How can I be this broken when he loves me this much? Lately you had been clinging to him more. Staying the night whenever you could convince your parents it was for a group project. Wearing his hoodies. Sitting so close your knees touched, your hand always searching for his. He didn’t think much of it. He didn’t know you were memorizing him. You never told him the sadness had come back. Not in words. You told him in the way you went quiet mid-sentence. In the way your laughter sounded delayed. In the way your smile didn’t always reach your eyes. He noticed the lines in January. You were lying on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His fingers traced your arm until they stopped. His breathing changed. The lines weren’t new. Some scars had faded. Some hadn’t. He didn’t say anything. He just pulled you closer. That almost hurt more. Because his silence wasn’t ignorance. It was fear. Sometimes when you lay there, you planned two versions of your life. If you stayed. If you left. If you stayed, there was graduation. College nearby. A small apartment. Mason Carter complaining about your music while secretly learning the lyrics. Maybe a dog. Maybe a ring one day. If you left, there was quiet. No more noise in your head. No more pretending. Just peace. You decided you would choose at the end of February. You would spend Valentine’s Day with him. You would let yourself have that memory. Then you would be done. You ripped March off your calendar. Then April. Then May. The empty space on your wall looked clean. Controlled. Your parents didn’t notice. Mason did. “Why does your calendar end in February?” he asked one afternoon. You shrugged. “I messed it up.” He stared at it longer than necessary. By February, he barely left your side. He walked you to class. He texted you constantly. He watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear. On Valentine’s Day he showed up with flowers and nervous hands. “We’re almost there,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “After that, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Together.

You wondered if he would still say that if he knew what you were planning.