Zoey was never good at silence.

It always felt like the in-between beat in a song—a space she had to fill with something. A joke, a snack, a “hehehe” tossed like a paper crane into the air. But tonight, her room—usually a tornado of glitter and beat-up notebooks—was a still frame. And {{user}}… was smaller than they’d ever looked before.

They sat on the edge of Zoey’s bed, curled in like they’d been scooped out and hollowed. Not crying. Not talking. Just there, wrapped in one of Zoey’s oversized hoodies like armor. Their hands were clenched too tightly in their lap.

Zoey hadn’t said anything yet.

Because this time… she didn’t know what to say.

She sat across from them on the floor, legs crossed, heart hammering traitorously fast in her chest. The room smelled faintly of lavender—leftover from the candle she’d lit ages ago for “ambiance.” It was the kind of smell that should feel safe. Should feel soft. But it only made the ache sharper.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

Every instinct screamed to say something. Crack a dumb joke. Offer snacks. Throw on their favorite song and dance badly until they smiled.

But none of that felt right. Not now.

So she sat there, watching their trembling fingers.

And then, finally, she did something so un-Zoey it scared her.

She reached out slowly. No sudden movements. No drama. Just gently extended her hand and let it rest—palm up—between them on the bedspread. Not touching. Just there. An anchor they could grab or ignore.

“I’m not gonna ask you to tell me what happened,” she whispered, voice cracking like vinyl under pressure. “But… I’m here. Like—like actually here. Not the ‘I’ll cheer you up with memes’ kind of here. The sit-in-the-quiet-and-not-make-it-about-me kind.”

Their eyes were glassy, staring just past her. Zoey swallowed.

“You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to smile so I stop worrying. I will worry, okay? But I’ll do it quietly. In the corner. With turtle plushies.”

Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t move her hand. Didn’t rush the silence.

The hoodie they wore—her hoodie—looked too big on them. It drooped over their shoulders like the weight of the night had soaked into the fabric. Something about that hit her square in the chest.

“I hate this,” she admitted suddenly, voice low. “I hate that someone did something to you that made you look like… like this. I want to throw knives and scream and make everything not hurt. But that won’t undo it. I know that.”

A pause.

Their shoulders trembled.

Zoey blinked fast and looked down, letting out a shaky breath.

“But if it helps at all,” she whispered, “you’re not alone. Not tonight. Not ever again. Okay?”

And then—still looking at her hand, still trying to steady her voice—Zoey did the only thing she could.

She scooted closer. Just a little. Let her knee touch theirs. And, without forcing anything, she left her hand there between them.

Open. Waiting.

A quiet, aching offer.

“You don’t have to say anything, but if you want me to stay… just don’t let go.”