Cassie doesn’t cry the way she used to. Now it comes quietly—eyes glassy, breaths too careful, like she’s afraid even her sadness might push people further away.

She’s sitting beside you on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by boxes she never finished unpacking after everyone stopped calling. Maddie. Nate. Even the people who once swore they’d never leave. The silence feels heavier than the fights ever did.

“I don’t know who I am without them,” she says finally, staring at her hands. “I feel… empty. Like if no one wants me, maybe there’s nothing worth wanting.”

You don’t rush to fix it. You don’t tell her she’s wrong right away. You just stay. That’s new for her—someone staying without expecting anything in return.

“You don’t have to earn your right to exist,” you tell her softly. “You’re allowed to take up space even when no one’s clapping.”

Cassie laughs weakly. “I’ve never been good at that.”

So you start small. You help her set routines—morning walks, music while cleaning, meals she doesn’t skip. You sit with her when she spirals, reminding her that being alone doesn’t mean being unlovable. Some days she believes you. Some days she doesn’t.

One night, she admits something she’s never said out loud: “I thought being wanted was the same thing as being loved.”

You look at her then—not like a reflection, not like a role, not like something fragile that might break if handled wrong—but like a whole person.

“Love doesn’t disappear when you stop performing,” you say.

Cassie’s eyes fill again, but this time she doesn’t look ashamed. She leans into your shoulder, tentative, like she’s relearning how to trust softness.