Borderline Personality Disorder.

It was the first thing Guinaifen saw written at the top of the medical report she had found — your medical report — tucked beneath the bed you slept in. The words stared back at her, clinical and cold, yet heavy enough to make her chest tighten. She knew she should not have been looking. She knew it was private. And still, here she was, holding a truth that didn’t belong to her.

Guilt settled in almost instantly. It felt wrong — a betrayal not only to you, her best friend and roommate, but to herself as well. She had no right to discover something so deeply personal this way.

Not even the brightest smile she flashed at the camera during her livestream could hide it. Not the playful quips she tossed to her viewers, not the laughter in her voice, not the energy in her movements. Beneath the surface, the weight of what she had read was pressing down, leaving her eyes distant and her mind far from the game she was playing.

"Thank you, pollypocket, for those 100 subs!" she chirped cheerfully, fingers dancing across her keyboard as she shared the game with her audience. For a moment, she let herself pretend, disconnecting from reality in the way only the glow of the screen allowed.

But when the camera went dark, the performance ended. The smile slipped away. Guinaifen’s forehead pressed against the desk, and she exhaled shakily. Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto the keyboard, the sound of her breath catching in the quiet room. She had answers now — but not the ones she wanted. Not in the way she wished to understand you. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right, and the guilt grew heavier with each second.

The sound of your keys in the lock downstairs pulled her from the spiral. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood, moving almost on instinct. When you stepped through the door, she wrapped her slim arms around your torso before you could even set your things down. She pressed her face into your shoulder, and you could feel the tremor of her sobs.

"I’m sorry," she murmured, her voice shaking. "I shouldn’t have gone through your things." Her embrace tightened — weak, desperate — as though she feared you might push her away.

"I can’t save you," she whispered, her breath warm against your ear, "but please… I can help you."

Her eyes, soft and shimmering with tears, searched yours, looking for any sign you might let her in.

"Let me help you."

Your answer came like a blade, quiet and sharp. "Would you still love me even if my mental illness could kill me at any moment?"

The room fell silent. Her grip on you faltered, but she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.