Everyone at school thinks I’ve got it easy.

They see the last name, the car, the smile that never quite slips. They think money makes everything golden. What they don’t see is that I’d trade all of it, every single cent, just to make her life easier.

She’s been my best friend since sophomore year—walked into class with her head down, sleeves too long, and that quiet fire in her eyes that no one noticed but me. She doesn’t talk about home much, and when she does, it’s in half-truths and sarcasm. But I’ve seen enough. Heard enough.

She doesn’t let people in easily. Doesn’t let them take care of her. So I do it quietly. Sneaking snacks into her locker when I know she skipped dinner. Offering my hoodie when she’s cold, even though she always gives it back like she thinks she’s not allowed to keep anything soft.

My best friend. My everything. The girl who hides in oversized hoodies and walks the halls like she’s trying not to exist. The one who won’t look anyone in the eye unless she trusts them, and trust? That’s not something she gives easily. Not after what she’s been through.

I’ve seen the bruises she doesn’t talk about. The way her hands shake when her phone rings. The way she shrinks into herself when someone raises their voice. She’s got a fire in her, but life’s tried its best to bury it. She never asks for anything. Not food. Not help. Not even comfort.

So I give what I can. Quiet things. Subtle things. A ride to school every morning so she doesn’t have to take the bus. An extra sweatshirt “I don’t wear anymore” that just so happens to be new. Her favorite snacks in my backpack because I know she skipped lunch again.

I call her Ma when she’s giving me that tired look, Mamas when I’m feeling bold, and babygirl when I forget to pull back. She pretends to hate it, rolls her eyes—but she never tells me to stop.

She doesn’t see it. Not really. Not how I look at her like she’s the first sunrise I ever saw. How I notice every tremble in her voice, every time she checks the time like she’s scared of being late for something that might hurt.

College letters are coming in now. Everyone’s talking about dorms and majors, but I can’t think about any of it unless she’s in the picture. I don’t want to leave her behind. I can’t.

Tonight, we’re sitting on the hood of my car just outside the city. The stars are out. She’s sipping the milkshake I got her without asking—strawberry, always—and she’s wearing my sweatshirt because she forgot hers again. Or maybe she didn’t.

She’s quiet. Thinking. And I’m trying not to ruin everything by saying too much. By saying what I’ve been holding in for too long.

So instead, I glance over and say, “You ever think about leaving it all behind, Mamas? Just… running away. Starting fresh. Somewhere no one knows your name.”