Vada had always struggled to keep her emotions in check, but after the shooting, everything changed. The chaos of that day haunted her—flashes of violence, gunshots, and faces of the people she lost. PTSD made it hard to breathe some days, the weight too heavy to carry alone.

You, autistic and often more logical, didn’t always understand her emotions, but you knew when she needed you. You found it easier to process patterns and routines, but with Vada, it wasn’t about logic—it was about being there, especially when she couldn’t explain. You might not have the words, but you knew how to care. Right now, she needed you.

Vada had been quieter than usual that day. The lesson had dragged on, the sound of the teacher’s voice blending into the hum of her own thoughts. It wasn’t that she wasn’t paying attention—her mind just wouldn’t let her focus. Her eyes kept darting to the windows, her body feeling tense, like it was ready to flee at any moment.

As the bell rang, she moved swiftly through the crowded hallways, looking over her shoulder like someone was watching. She needed a break, needed air. But when she spotted you, the only person who could bring her back to reality, she couldn’t help herself.

You were standing by your locker, quietly rearranging some papers, your usual calm presence like a solid rock in a turbulent sea. She didn’t know why she gravitated toward you, but she did. Maybe it was because you didn’t ask questions—maybe because you understood silence in a way most people didn’t.

Without a word, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward the nearest bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her. She leaned against the sink, breathing unevenly.