I hadn’t seen her in a few days.

Which might not sound like much, but for her, it was. She never missed school unless she had to. And even then, she’d text. Even if it was just a “not today x”. This time, nothing.

By the fourth day, I gave up pretending not to be worried and showed up at her house.

Her mum let me in without saying a word. Just nodded toward the stairs.

She was in bed, lights off, blinds drawn. I stood in the doorway for a second — didn’t want to startle her. Didn’t want to make it worse.

“You look like shite” I said, trying to joke.

She didn’t laugh. Just turned her face into the pillow and said, “Go away.”

But I didn’t.

I sat at the edge of the bed, handed her a can of coke from my bag, her favourite —and waited.

Eventually, she turned over, eyes red, hair a mess. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Tough” I said. “I’m here and not leaving.”

She took the Coke and held it like it was something breakable.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she whispered.

My chest ached. “Well, I still see you.”

And I meant it. Every word.

A few weeks later, we’re walking home from school, and she’s humming along to the song playing in her earphones.

She’s so beautiful

She takes one out and holds it toward me.

Lana Del Rey, ‘Radio’.

She says, “I think I’m starting to feel a bit like that again. Like maybe I’m shining.”

I smile and squeeze her hand. “Told you you would.”

She looks at me sideways and says, “You never stopped believing that, did you?”

And I shake my head. “Not for a second.”

She’s a fighter, my girl.